If anyone thinks they have set a formula for success, that's not

Host: The sound of a projector hummed through the darkened room, spilling faint ribbons of light across the cracked screen. Dust particles floated in the beam, suspended like forgotten stars. The cinema was empty except for two figures sitting in the middle row — Jack, arms folded, eyes reflecting the flicker of old film reels, and Jeeny, leaning forward with quiet curiosity, her hands clasped around a steaming paper cup of tea.

Host: Outside, the rain pressed gently against the windows, a soft tapping that felt like a heartbeat beneath the hum of the film. The movie on the screen — some faded black-and-white scene of love and loss — played to no one, yet the light kept moving, as if stories refused to die even without an audience.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? This place feels like memory. Like every story that’s ever been told is still echoing here.”

Jack: “Or like every story that didn’t make money.”

Jeeny: “You never change.”

Jack: “I’m realistic. You talk about art like it’s oxygen. I see it like a gamble.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why you’d never understand what Diljit Dosanjh meant when he said, ‘If anyone thinks they have set a formula for success, that’s not true. Because if that were to happen, then people would only be copying that formula and every following film would be a copy alone.’”

Jack: “That’s easy for him to say. He’s already successful.”

Jeeny: “He’s successful because he didn’t copy anyone. That’s the point.”

Jack: “Oh, come on, Jeeny. You know how the world works. Every hit song, every blockbuster, every product — it’s all just a remix of something that worked before. There is a formula. The smart ones just know when to tweak it.”

Jeeny: “Then why does the world still crave something new? Why do people still cry in front of screens or fall in love with words they’ve never heard before?”

Jack: “Because they’re predictable. Emotion is the safest formula there is.”

Host: Jeeny turned her head slowly, the projector light catching the glimmer in her eyes — soft, defiant. Jack stared back, his grey gaze sharp, almost defensive, as if the argument wasn’t about cinema at all, but something deeper.

Jeeny: “You think art’s a machine. But it’s a mirror. No formula can create truth. You can copy style, not soul.”

Jack: “Tell that to the franchises making billions. People don’t want soul; they want familiarity. The same comfort, wrapped in a new poster.”

Jeeny: “And yet every now and then, someone like Bong Joon-ho makes Parasite — and the world stops. That film didn’t follow a formula. It broke one. It dared to be uncomfortable, unpredictable. And that’s why it mattered.”

Jack: “Maybe he just got lucky.”

Jeeny: “Luck favors courage.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, thick as smoke, delicate as truth. Jack’s jaw tightened. He leaned back, eyes drifting toward the screen, where a woman in monochrome tears stood alone on a rain-soaked street.

Jack: “I used to believe in originality once. Back when I thought I could change something. But every time you try, the market tells you otherwise. Investors don’t fund experiments — they fund guarantees.”

Jeeny: “Guarantees kill imagination. When did you start measuring art in profit margins?”

Jack: “When rent started existing.”

Jeeny: “That’s not an excuse. Even Da Vinci painted for patrons. But he still painted truth. His formula wasn’t technique; it was wonder.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s terrifying. That’s why few dare to live without formulas — it means you have to fail. Again and again.”

Host: The projector flickered, the film briefly cutting to white light — blank, blinding, pure. For a second, both of them sat bathed in it, like two souls caught in the same reel of self-reflection.

Jack: “Maybe formulas exist because people are tired. Because chaos is exhausting. Not everyone wants to reinvent the wheel.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the tragedy, Jack. The wheel wasn’t meant to be copied; it was meant to move. To take us somewhere new.”

Jack: “You really think we can escape repetition?”

Jeeny: “Not escape it — transcend it. Like Dosanjh said, if success could be bottled, every artist would be dead. The formula is failure, Jack. The courage to risk being nobody in pursuit of something true.”

Host: Jeeny’s words trembled slightly, but her eyes never wavered. The rain outside had grown heavier, drumming a syncopated rhythm against the glass — as if nature itself was scoring their conversation.

Jack: “You talk like failure’s romantic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Failure means you dared to do something no one else has done. That’s the heartbeat of art.”

Jack: “And what about the people who never recover from it?”

Jeeny: “Then their courage becomes their legacy. Vincent van Gogh died thinking he failed. Now his madness paints the world’s beauty. You call that a loss?”

Jack: “He also died broke and alone.”

Jeeny: “And yet millions stand before his work and feel less alone. Isn’t that the point?”

Host: The screen went dark. The reel had ended, leaving only the sound of the projector’s spin, like the slow winding of a clock after the story has been told. The room glowed with residual light — fragile, fading, beautiful.

Jack: “You ever think about how easy it is to romanticize struggle when you’re not the one starving for your art?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. But it’s harder to live starving for meaning. There’s no formula for that hunger either.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “But it pays the soul.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a whisper, almost a melody. Jack rubbed his temples, sighing — not in defeat, but in recognition.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? We just throw away everything we know and start from scratch?”

Jeeny: “Not everything. Just the part that’s safe.”

Jack: “Safe is what keeps people alive.”

Jeeny: “And unsafe is what keeps them human.”

Host: A single lightbulb flickered above them, casting long, broken shadows across the aisle. The cinema seemed to breathe — old, worn, but still alive, like the stubborn persistence of art itself.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think success kills more artists than failure ever did.”

Jeeny: “It does. Because success whispers — ‘Don’t change.’”

Jack: “And yet, every producer, every investor, every audience wants exactly that — the same feeling, the same thrill, the same ending.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox of art. People crave the familiar, but fall in love with the unexpected. You just have to risk disappointing them to find the truth.”

Jack: “So maybe Dosanjh’s right. There’s no formula. Just the illusion of one.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every masterpiece begins as a mistake someone refused to fix.”

Host: A faint smile touched Jack’s lips, the first hint of warmth breaking through the steel of his demeanor. He stood, walked to the projector, and stopped it with a soft click. The light vanished. The room fell into darkness — calm, complete, infinite.

Jack: “You think that’s what we’re all afraid of, Jeeny? The dark — that blank frame before the next story begins?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it means we have to create again. From nothing.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s where truth hides — in the blank frame.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we should stop copying and start living inside that frame.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. Outside, the city lights shimmered on the wet pavement, reflecting like fragments of unwritten stories. Jack and Jeeny stood by the door, silhouettes against the faint glow.

Jack: “No formulas then.”

Jeeny: “No fear either.”

Host: He nodded, a quiet agreement passing between them — fragile but certain, like the beginning of an unwritten scene. As they stepped into the night, the world outside seemed new again — unscripted, uncertain, and beautifully so.

Host: The camera of life panned back, catching their figures in the rainlight, while the empty cinema behind them flickered once more — a single frame, pure white — the eternal promise of another story waiting to be told.