I would say 'Gremlins,' 'Die Hard,' and 'Black Christmas' are all

Host: The night was a cold December whisper, the kind that made the air feel like glass. A faint mist drifted through the alleyways of the city, where neon signs blinked like wounded stars. Inside a dim bar tucked between an old cinema and a pawnshop, two friends sat across from each other at a small table, the glow of a single candle painting shadows on their faces.

Jack was hunched forward, fingers wrapped around a half-empty glass of whisky, his grey eyes reflecting the TV screen behind the bar — an old VHS of Die Hard flickering with static.
Jeeny sat opposite him, a soft scarf around her neck, her brown eyes tracing the flame like it carried a secret.

A voice from the TV echoed faintly: “Yippee-ki-yay, mother—”
The sound cut out before the profanity landed.

Jack: “James Roday once said, ‘I would say Gremlins, Die Hard, and Black Christmas are all pretty good Christmas movies that aren’t really about Christmas.’ He’s right, you know. Maybe that’s the only way to make a good Christmas movie — pretend it’s not about Christmas at all.”

Jeeny: “You mean… hide the warmth inside the violence?”

Host: The bartender wiped a glass with a rag, half-listening, the way strangers sometimes do when philosophy leaks out of ordinary talk. The TV light kept flashing, blue and red, across the bottles on the shelf — like a police siren caught in a bottle.

Jack: “Exactly. People don’t care about Christmas anymore — not the real one. They just want something to feel, even if it’s blood and bullets under a Christmas tree.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Scrooge with a film degree.”

Jack: “I’m just saying — Die Hard isn’t about joy, or redemption. It’s about survival. A man alone in a building full of people pretending to celebrate. Isn’t that more honest than all those fake smiles and jingling bells?”

Jeeny: “Maybe honesty isn’t the point. Maybe Christmas — even the fake kind — is supposed to be about pretending long enough to remember what hope feels like.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, and the streetlight outside flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off, then stopped, leaving a hollow quiet.

Jack: “You think hope’s a performance?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Like those films you mentioned — they put Christmas lights over darkness, and somehow the darkness feels warmer. Gremlins is about chaos, Black Christmas is about fear, Die Hard is about loneliness. And yet, because they happen during Christmas, we let them redeem themselves.”

Jack: “So what, Christmas is just a filter now? A way to make tragedy look festive?”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only time we allow tragedy to be seen. The rest of the year, we hide it. But during Christmas, even pain gets a seat at the table.”

Host: Her voice was soft but steady. The flame of the candle quivered, as if listening. Jack looked down, rolled the glass between his palms — the ice inside clinking like memory.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I watched Gremlins on Christmas Eve. Thought it was just a fun monster movie. But now I realize it was about something else — about losing control, about technology gone wrong, about the American dream turning into a nightmare. Nothing Christmassy about that.”

Jeeny: “But it’s set at Christmas for a reason. Because even monsters look different in the glow of fairy lights. It’s irony, Jack. That’s what makes it art.”

Jack: “Art? It’s puppets and chaos.”

Jeeny: “It’s a metaphor. Just like Die Hard is. Think about it — John McClane is a man trying to reconnect with his family, stuck in a tower full of greed and corruption. What’s more Christmas than that? Salvation through suffering.”

Host: A couple at the other end of the bar laughed too loudly. The bartender turned up the volume slightly; Gremlins was on now — the little creatures dancing around Christmas trees with wild, mechanical joy.

Jack: “You really think there’s salvation in an action movie?”

Jeeny: “Not in the movie — in the man. Every story of survival is a Christmas story, Jack. Someone fights through the dark and finds a light. Isn’t that what this season pretends to be about?”

Jack: “Pretends. You said it yourself. We’ve commercialized sentiment. We’ve built whole industries on fake feelings. Maybe that’s why Roday liked those films — because they’re honest about not being honest.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he liked them because they show how human chaos still finds its rhythm in ritual. We need something to hang our pain on — a season, a song, a movie.”

Host: She lifted her glass, the liquid catching the candlelight like amber fire. Outside, faint snowflakes began to fall, each one melting the moment it touched the pavement.

Jeeny: “Look at this city — it’s covered in lights and loneliness. Every blinking decoration is like an apology we keep repeating. That’s why movies like Die Hard work — they give people something real dressed as fiction.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the best Christmas movies are the ones that accidentally tell the truth?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The ones that stumble into meaning, like life itself.”

Host: Jack smiled, faintly — that rare, tired smile that only appears when a man starts to agree with something he doesn’t want to believe.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe Die Hard is the perfect Christmas movie. A man fighting terrorists and loneliness, barefoot and bleeding — it’s practically a nativity story for the modern world.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Exactly. Instead of angels and shepherds, we’ve got cops and criminals. Instead of a manger, we have an office tower. But the heart’s the same — one man trying to bring someone home.”

Jack: “And Gremlins?”

Jeeny: “That’s just about how we ruin everything we touch — even miracles. A Christmas gift that becomes a curse. It’s perfect.”

Host: The TV screen flickered again — a tiny gremlin biting through a string of lights, sparks flying like tiny fireworks. The soundtrack was jarringly cheerful.

Jack: “Then Black Christmas must be the dark side of it all — the reminder that even holidays can’t escape horror.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because sometimes the season we decorate with joy is the same one where our fears feel loudest. Maybe that’s what Roday meant — these films aren’t about Christmas; they’re about us. The contradictions, the absurdity, the madness of pretending life is tidy for one month a year.”

Jack: “And yet we keep pretending.”

Jeeny: “Because pretending is human. It’s how we keep going.”

Host: A long pause settled between them. The bar had grown quieter. Even the TV seemed to have dimmed, as if giving their thoughts space to breathe.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe you’re right again. Maybe the best Christmas stories aren’t the ones about joy — but the ones that admit how hard it is to find it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the truth. Maybe that’s why we keep rewatching them — Die Hard, Gremlins, Black Christmas — not because they make us feel good, but because they remind us that we still want to.”

Host: The clock behind the bar ticked, slow and deliberate. Outside, the snow was still falling, turning the streetlights into hazy orbs. Jack raised his glass.

Jack: “To imperfect Christmases.”

Jeeny: “To the beautiful mess beneath the tinsel.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, the sound clear and fragile — like a bell in a quiet church. The TV credits rolled, music swelling — that strange mix of nostalgia and chaos only old films can hold.

And as the camera of life would have it, the scene faded with their laughter, mingling with the snow, the neon, and the flickering candle — a reminder that maybe, in a world obsessed with meaning, the most honest stories are the ones that don’t try to be about Christmas at all.