I'm not a fan of musicals at all, but I do think 'The Nightmare

Host: The cinema café was nearly empty — a twilight refuge for film lovers and lost thinkers.
The walls were covered with movie posters, their corners curling with nostalgia. The air smelled of espresso, popcorn, and the faint melancholy of people who still cared about stories.

Jack sat in a corner booth, his jacket draped over the seat, a half-drunk cappuccino before him. A script — its pages creased and stained with coffee — lay open, marked with scribbles that looked more like confessions than notes.

Across from him sat Jeeny, dressed in an oversized sweater, a scarf wrapped carelessly around her neck, her eyes alive with curiosity.

Host: Outside, rain fell with cinematic precision — not heavy, just enough to make everything shimmer like it had a purpose.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that page for twenty minutes. Either you’re in love with it or you hate it.”

Jack: “Both.”

Jeeny: “That bad?”

Jack: “It’s a musical.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “And I’m not a fan of musicals. Thomas Brodie-Sangster once said something I’ve always agreed with: ‘I’m not a fan of musicals at all, but I do think The Nightmare Before Christmas is very good. I always thought Walk the Line was very good, too. I was in Nowhere Boy. I played Paul McCartney. That was kind of musical — we did songs in that.’”

Jeeny: “Ah, honesty with a touch of diplomacy.”

Jack: “Exactly. He’s right. Most musicals are sugar without substance. But sometimes one sneaks through — one with bones beneath the melody.”

Jeeny: “So what’s wrong with this one?”

Jack: “It sings too much and says too little.”

Host: She smiled, stirring her drink, the spoon clinking softly — a rhythm that could have been a soundtrack in another world.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe you’re just allergic to joy?”

Jack: “No. I’m allergic to pretense. People breaking into song in the middle of tragedy — it’s dishonest.”

Jeeny: “Dishonest? Or hopeful?”

Jack: “Same thing, most days.”

Jeeny: “So you think music should stay in concerts, not conversations?”

Jack: “I think life already has enough noise.”

Jeeny: “But musicals turn noise into expression. They take what we’re too afraid to say and make it singable.”

Jack: “Yeah, and sometimes they make grief sound like a jingle.”

Host: The rain intensified, a subtle percussion on the glass, filling the silence between their philosophies.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s why people loved The Nightmare Before Christmas. It wasn’t pretending. It was strange, honest, and a little broken — like the rest of us.”

Jack: “Exactly. It had darkness. Balance. It didn’t fake happiness; it earned it.”

Jeeny: “And Walk the Line — that one didn’t sing, it bled.”

Jack: “Right. Those weren’t musicals; they were stories that happened to use music as confession.”

Jeeny: “And Nowhere Boy?”

Jack: “That one hurt differently. The music was just memory in disguise. You could feel the weight of the notes — like echoes of the people they used to be.”

Host: Her eyes softened, and she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand — the listener’s posture of someone who understood that art is always autobiography.

Jeeny: “So maybe it’s not that you hate musicals. Maybe you hate when they lie about feeling.”

Jack: “Maybe. I hate when they tell you how to feel instead of trusting you to feel it yourself.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are, trying to write one.”

Jack: “Because maybe that’s the challenge. To make something that sings without selling out.”

Jeeny: “You’re chasing sincerity through cynicism. That’s dangerous ground.”

Jack: “All good art walks dangerous ground.”

Host: The lights flickered, the barista wiping counters, the projector hum from the screening room bleeding softly through the walls — a hum that sounded almost like memory itself.

Jeeny: “You know, musicals aren’t about realism. They’re about release. About the things too heavy to carry in words alone.”

Jack: “Then what’s wrong with silence?”

Jeeny: “Nothing. But sometimes silence needs harmony to survive.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Music is the soul’s way of saying, I’m still here.”

Jack: “You ever notice that all the great songs come from pain?”

Jeeny: “Because pain gives pitch. Happiness hums. Sadness sings.”

Host: The rain eased, drizzling softer, the sound of drops sliding down glass like a metronome counting their conversation.

Jack: “You ever feel like we overcomplicate art? Maybe we don’t need to sing, or sculpt, or film. Maybe we just need to tell the truth.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the truth sometimes needs melody to be heard.”

Jack: “You sound like a lyricist.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man afraid to dance.”

Jack: “I’m not afraid.”

Jeeny: “Then why not write the song?”

Jack: “Because the world already has enough noise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it needs your kind of noise.”

Host: She reached over, flipped one of his script pages. The black ink shone faintly in the café light, the words trembling like they were waiting to be freed from stillness.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about The Nightmare Before Christmas?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “It’s a film about someone who thinks joy is artificial — until he realizes it’s just another kind of truth. You’re Jack Skellington right now.”

Jack: “So I’m a skeleton in a suit trying to understand feelings?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “That’s... disturbingly accurate.”

Jeeny: “Because you think feeling something makes you weak. But feeling is the point.”

Jack: “I write better when I’m detached.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re not writing — you’re reporting.”

Host: Her words cut gently, like scissors trimming fabric into form. He looked at her, then at the rain-streaked window, the world outside blurred but alive.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe musicals aren’t lies. Maybe they’re emotional shortcuts.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They let us skip explanation and move straight into vulnerability.”

Jack: “So what am I supposed to do with that?”

Jeeny: “Let your characters sing. Even if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Jack: “And if it feels corny?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s honest. Corniness is just sincerity without armor.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I live by it.”

Host: He smiled then — small, reluctant, but real. The kind of smile that comes when resistance loses its last defense.

Jack: “You ever notice how life has its own soundtrack? Rain at the right time. Silence at the wrong one.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every day’s a scene. Every feeling’s a score.”

Jack: “You make it sound like we’re living in one big musical.”

Jeeny: “We are. We just keep pretending it’s a drama.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the twist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the truth.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The barista turned off the lights, leaving only the flicker of the neon sign outside — pink and humming, like a heartbeat in electric disguise.

They gathered their things. Jack tucked his script under his arm.

Jeeny: “So, you’ll finish it?”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe I’ll even make them sing.”

Jeeny: “That’s the spirit.”

Jack: “No. That’s the story.”

Host: As they stepped out into the street, the puddles reflected the city lights, and for a moment, the whole world seemed to shimmer in quiet rhythm — as if life itself was humming along.

Because, as Thomas Brodie-Sangster reminded them,
music doesn’t make everything believable — it makes everything bearable.

And sometimes, even the most skeptical hearts
end up singing their way into truth.