It's a sad commentary on our time - to use a phrase much favored

Host: The snow was falling softly, gently erasing the sharp edges of the city. Each flake shimmered briefly under the dim glow of the streetlights, before vanishing into the quiet darkness. The world seemed hushed, holding its breath in the brittle cold of Christmas night.

Through the frosted windows of a nearly empty movie theater, warm light flickered — scenes of laughter, explosions, love, and heartbreak flashing across the screen. Rows of red velvet seats stretched out like shadows, half-occupied by silent silhouettes seeking escape rather than joy.

In the back row sat Jack, a cup of lukewarm coffee in one hand, his coat collar turned up against the draft. His grey eyes reflected the screen’s glow — tired, analytical, detached. Beside him sat Jeeny, her hands clasped around a small paper bag of popcorn, her expression soft, almost mournful.

Host: On the screen, Christmas looked brighter — families laughing, fireplaces roaring, everything neatly resolved before the credits. But in the dark theater, something deeper stirred — the quiet ache of modern solitude.

Jeeny: (softly) “Michael Dirda once said, ‘It’s a sad commentary on our time — to use a phrase much favored by my late father — that people increasingly celebrate Christmas Day by going to the movies.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “He must’ve hated popcorn then.”

Jeeny: “No. He hated what it replaced.”

Host: The screenlight danced across their faces — blue, gold, then red. The hum of the projector filled the silence, steady and hypnotic.

Jack: “He’s got a point. Once upon a time, Christmas was family, faith, firelight. Now it’s box office numbers and limited-edition soda cups.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s just people looking for comfort in a different language.”

Jack: “Comfort? Sitting in the dark with strangers watching fake happiness?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what church was, once upon a time?”

Host: Jack turned his head, eyebrows raised, the faintest hint of surprise breaking through his cynicism.

Jack: “That’s blasphemous, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No. Honest. Both are rituals. Both are about belonging — about trying to feel part of something bigger than yourself, even if just for two hours.”

Host: The projector whirred louder, throwing a cascade of light that briefly illuminated dust in the air — floating like small souls between past and present.

Jack: “You think sitting in a theater can replace faith?”

Jeeny: “Not replace. Reflect. The stories change, but the need behind them doesn’t. People used to gather around priests to hear parables. Now they gather around screens to watch them in color.”

Jack: “Except the priests wanted to save your soul. The studios just want your wallet.”

Jeeny: “True. But maybe people have learned that salvation, even temporary, is worth paying for.”

Host: The film on screen showed a family embracing under falling snow. The audience murmured softly — laughter here, a sigh there.

Jack: “It’s strange. I remember when Christmas meant something tangible. My mother used to play old records — Sinatra, Nat King Cole. The smell of cinnamon and oranges. Real warmth. Now everyone just wants distraction.”

Jeeny: “Maybe distraction is all that’s left for those who lost what you had.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think I had it better?”

Jeeny: “You had belonging. Even if imperfect. Some people never had that — only the flicker of someone else’s joy to borrow for a while.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but heavy. The music from the film swelled, distant but emotional — a melody that tried to imitate real human tenderness.

Jack: “So, it’s not that we’ve stopped celebrating Christmas. It’s that we’ve stopped knowing how.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve traded presence for spectacle. But the longing’s the same — to be seen, to be warm, to not feel alone in the dark.”

Host: A faint rustle — someone in the front row wiped a tear, another laughed nervously. Life, in all its contradictions, played out in the shadows.

Jack: “Dirda’s father would call that a sad commentary. You sound like you’d call it evolution.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Sadness doesn’t mean failure. It just means we’re still searching.”

Host: Outside, the wind moaned through the alleyways, scattering the snow like scattered thoughts. Inside, the light of the screen painted both their faces in alternating hues — one moment joy, the next despair, then something in between.

Jack: “You know what bothers me most about that quote?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That it assumes movies are lesser — as if gathering here to feel something together isn’t sacred in its own way. Maybe people haven’t abandoned meaning. Maybe they’ve just rewritten its script.”

Jeeny: (softly) “So the cinema is the new cathedral.”

Jack: “And the ticket stub is the offering.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe there’s still hope for our generation.”

Host: The film reached its end. The audience clapped — awkwardly, but sincerely — then stood, their shadows moving like ghosts in the projector’s fading beam.

Jack and Jeeny remained seated, watching the credits roll. Names passed in silence — hundreds of unseen hands who built the illusion they had just witnessed.

Jack: “You ever wonder what people used to feel when they left Mass on Christmas? Maybe… a sense of renewal.”

Jeeny: “And what do they feel now, when they leave here?”

Jack: “Probably emptiness. Maybe relief.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe something quieter. Connection, even if borrowed.”

Host: The lights came up, soft and golden, chasing away the darkness. The illusion was over, but the warmth lingered faintly — a residue of emotion left behind by fiction.

Jack stood, stretching, and looked down at the empty seats.

Jack: “Dirda was right — it is a sad commentary. But maybe it’s also a human one. We’ll always need stories to survive the cold.”

Jeeny: (putting on her coat) “Yes. And whether it’s in a church or a cinema, the goal’s the same — to remind us we’re not alone.”

Host: They walked toward the exit. The doors opened with a groan, and the snowlight rushed in — cold, luminous, pure. The street was nearly empty, save for a few wanderers under umbrellas, their footsteps muffled in the white quiet.

Jeeny: (softly, looking up) “Maybe it’s not that Christmas lost its soul, Jack. Maybe it just moved screens.”

Jack: (with a small smile) “Then I guess God learned to tell stories in 24 frames per second.”

Host: She laughed, and the sound — small, bright, sincere — echoed through the empty lobby like a carol.

Outside, the snow kept falling, endless and forgiving, covering the footprints of those who had already gone home.

Host: And as the camera lingered on their silhouettes walking down the glowing street, the world seemed to whisper Michael Dirda’s lament — not as condemnation, but as a quiet truth:

That even in the age of flickering light and forgotten faith, humanity still gathers —
not to worship perfection, but to remember warmth.

Because whether it’s in a pew or a theater,
we still ache for the same miracle — to feel less alone on Christmas night.