I'm taking a bit of a wait-and-see attitude towards 3D.

Host: The cinema was empty, the projector flickering against the silver screen, casting ghostly light that shimmered across the rows of velvet seats. Dust drifted lazily in the beam, like forgotten ideas still trying to catch the spotlight. The film reels spun quietly behind glass, their hum steady, mechanical — the heartbeat of memory itself.

Jack sat in the middle row, his coat draped over the back of the chair beside him. The screen glowed with an image frozen in mid-motion — a city folding in on itself, half dream, half illusion. Jeeny walked down the aisle, carrying two paper cups of coffee, her steps echoing through the emptiness like lines of dialogue waiting for actors.

Jeeny: “You really do love being alone in old cinemas, don’t you?”

Jack: “It’s the only place where silence still feels cinematic.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Or nostalgic.”

Jack: “Same thing, really.”

Host: She handed him the cup and sat beside him. The screen flickered once, throwing both of their shadows onto the worn carpet — two outlines of thought caught in suspension.

Jeeny: “You know, Christopher Nolan once said, ‘I’m taking a bit of a wait-and-see attitude towards 3D.’”

Jack: (grinning) “Of course he did. He’s allergic to gimmicks.”

Jeeny: “Or just loyal to depth that doesn’t need glasses.”

Host: He chuckled softly, the kind of laugh that carried respect disguised as irony.

Jack: “I get it, though. Everyone keeps chasing the next big thing — higher resolutions, immersive this, virtual that. Nolan just wants the story to be the technology.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He doesn’t want you to watch the movie — he wants you to fall into it.”

Jack: “But isn’t that what 3D promised? To pull us in?”

Jeeny: “No. 3D makes you aware you’re watching. Nolan makes you forget you are.”

Host: The projector hummed louder, the reels spinning into another scene — a hallway turning on its axis, gravity dissolving, dreams folding in on themselves. The kind of illusion that doesn’t need tricks, only conviction.

Jack: “You know what I think? 3D was never about depth — it was about distraction. It’s like they thought adding another dimension could make up for losing imagination.”

Jeeny: “And yet we keep doing it — trying to upgrade experience instead of understanding it.”

Jack: “Because the harder it is to feel something real, the more we chase what looks real.”

Host: She sipped her coffee, her gaze distant, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? The more technology promises immersion, the more detached people seem to get. We’re surrounded by realism and starving for reality.”

Jack: “That’s the irony. The truer the image, the less it touches.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Nolan hesitates — he knows cinema isn’t about replicating life. It’s about revealing it.”

Jack: “And he trusts the old tools to do it.”

Jeeny: “Not old. Honest.”

Host: The film stopped for a moment — the reel flapping empty, the light still pouring through. The room glowed blank and white, an accidental purity.

Jack: “You ever think the obsession with 3D, VR, all of it — it’s just our fear of limitation? Like we can’t stand the idea that the screen still separates us from the world.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But art’s always been separation — it’s the distance that makes meaning possible. You don’t need to be in the dream to feel it.”

Jack: “Tell that to Silicon Valley.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I would, but they’d probably ask for a headset demo first.”

Host: Their laughter filled the empty space — brief, warm, utterly human.

Jack: “You know, I miss imperfections. Scratches on the reel, focus slipping for a frame, the sound of film spooling. It reminded you someone made it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every imperfection was proof of presence — a fingerprint of the artist.”

Jack: “Now everything’s flawless, and somehow lifeless.”

Jeeny: “Because perfection isn’t depth. It’s control.”

Host: The lights dimmed further as the projectionist — unseen — started the reel again. Onscreen, a new image bloomed: two figures walking down a street made of dreams, real and unreal all at once.

Jeeny: “You think we’ll ever stop trying to improve the illusion?”

Jack: “No. But I think the best artists — the Nolans of the world — remember that illusion is the only way to tell the truth.”

Jeeny: “And truth, like film, doesn’t need to be in 3D. It just needs to move you.”

Host: The screen flared again, painting their faces in shifting light. They sat quietly, two believers watching shadows pretend to be life — and somehow feeling more alive for it.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real meaning of Nolan’s ‘wait-and-see.’ He’s not waiting for better technology. He’s waiting to see if we remember how to feel without it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why his films hit so hard. They remind us that awe isn’t in the image — it’s in the observer.”

Jack: “Exactly. The best dimension of cinema isn’t depth — it’s emotion.”

Jeeny: “And the best directors are architects of empathy.”

Host: The movie reached its end. The credits rolled silently, white text over black — names passing like constellations across the void.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what it means, sitting in the dark watching other people’s dreams?”

Jack: “Maybe it means we still believe in light.”

Host: She smiled, setting down her empty cup, her reflection small and soft in the glowing screen.

The projector whirred to a stop. The room went dark, but the afterimage of the story lingered — that phantom glow that lives behind the eyelids when the lights come on too soon.

They sat there for a long moment, neither speaking. Outside, the neon signs of the city flickered like restless souls, promising new worlds through glass.

Jack: “You know what I love about film?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “It never stops waiting for us to see.”

Host: The last line of light vanished from the screen. The theater was silent now — not empty, but full of what had been seen, what had been felt.

And in that silence, Nolan’s words seemed to whisper through the dark — a quiet rebellion against spectacle:

“I’m taking a bit of a wait-and-see attitude towards 3D.”

Because the truest dimension of art isn’t in the image that reaches out of the screen,
but in the soul that dares to reach back.