More than in any other performing arts the lack of respect for

Host:
The theatre was nearly empty.
Only the smell of dust, paint, and old velvet curtains lingered in the stillness. Rows of empty red seats stretched into the darkness like silent jurors. The stage lights—half-burned, flickering—cast a trembling halo over center stage, where one could still feel the ghosts of dialogue, the echo of applause that had long since faded into memory.

Jack stood there, center stage, his coat hanging loosely from his shoulders, his face pale under the ghostly glow. Jeeny sat in the first row, a folded program in her hands. Between them, caught between worlds—the living and the imagined—lay a single page from a notebook, bearing words that pierced both the art and the ego of the stage:

“More than in any other performing arts the lack of respect for acting seems to spring from the fact that every layman considers himself a valid critic.” – Simone Weil

Jeeny:
(reading the line, softly, her voice echoing faintly off the walls)
Simone Weil… she could see into every human vanity, couldn’t she?

Jack:
(half-smiles, looking out into the empty seats)
Yeah. She’d have made a terrible audience member. Too honest.

Jeeny:
(tilts her head)
Or the best one. Honesty is what most performances fear.

Host:
The dust motes danced in the light, drifting like memory. Jack’s shoes scuffed against the stage floor, each step stirring faint echoes of long-dead monologues.

Jack:
(quietly)
She’s right, though. Everyone thinks they understand acting because they understand emotion. They see someone cry on stage and think, “I’ve done that.” But that’s the difference—actors bleed in rhythm.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
“Bleed in rhythm.” That’s poetic, Jack.

Jack:
(shrugs)
It’s not poetry. It’s muscle memory.

Host:
He turned toward the empty theater, his voice carrying into the dark like a confession whispered to unseen gods.

Jack:
You know what the problem is? Acting looks effortless when it’s done right. That’s the curse. The more truthful it is, the less it looks like work.

Jeeny:
(leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand)
And everyone mistakes invisibility for simplicity.

Jack:
Exactly. They don’t respect what they can’t see—the fear, the study, the repetition until you forget who you are just to become someone else for two hours.

Jeeny:
(softly)
So you think actors are invisible even when everyone’s watching?

Jack:
(smirking, bitterly)
Especially then.

Host:
A faint wind creaked through the rafters, a whisper of ghosts applauding from balconies that no longer held them. The silence afterward was almost reverent.

Jeeny:
You ever wonder why that lack of respect stings so much? Why it matters?

Jack:
Because acting is about empathy. And when people dismiss it, it feels like they’re dismissing empathy itself.

Jeeny:
(nods slowly)
Maybe that’s what Weil meant—the layman’s criticism isn’t ignorance, it’s ego. Everyone believes they understand humanity as deeply as the actor who studies it.

Jack:
(looking up at the empty balcony seats)
And yet no one else rehearses being human every night.

Jeeny:
(softly, smiling)
We all do. Just badly.

Jack:
(laughs quietly)
Maybe. But actors—actors rehearse the meaning of the heartbeat. They learn timing, silence, tone—all the languages of pain and love.

Host:
The light flickered, catching the curve of Jeeny’s smile, the shine of Jack’s weary eyes. Around them, the theatre breathed—its air dense with history, its silence alive with waiting.

Jeeny:
You sound angry, Jack.

Jack:
(pauses, then sighs)
Not angry. Just tired. It’s strange, isn’t it? To dedicate your life to truth—emotional truth—and be seen as a liar for it.

Jeeny:
Because acting is the art of honesty disguised as deception.

Jack:
(turns to her, voice low)
And the audience only believes the lie because it reminds them of something true.

Host:
Her eyes softened, reflecting the dim stage lights. The sound of rain began to patter faintly against the old roof, a rhythmic percussion over their conversation.

Jeeny:
You know, Weil wasn’t attacking actors—she was defending them. She saw how easy it was for people to critique the art they consume without understanding what it costs.

Jack:
(quietly)
Yeah. People see the emotion but not the erosion. They see performance, not vulnerability.

Jeeny:
(leaning back, her tone gentle but firm)
But maybe that’s the point. Acting isn’t about being seen—it’s about being felt.

Jack:
(smiles faintly)
You sound like a director.

Jeeny:
(shrugs)
Maybe I just understand loneliness. And that’s what acting is, isn’t it? Loneliness performed beautifully.

Host:
A pause—long, tender, full of the kind of truth that doesn’t need applause. The rain grew louder, mingling with the faint hum of the old theater’s lights.

Jack:
Sometimes I think the stage is the only place where I’m honest. Everywhere else, I’m pretending not to pretend.

Jeeny:
(softly, almost to herself)
And maybe that’s what makes actors holy. They tell lies to reveal truth while the rest of us tell truths to hide lies.

Host:
The words hung in the air like incense. Jack’s eyes glimmered, the candle of the soul lit by recognition.

Jack:
You think Weil saw that too?

Jeeny:
I think she saw everything that required reverence. She understood that art—real art—is prayer disguised as performance.

Jack:
(quietly)
Then acting is confession.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
And the audience are the sinners who recognize themselves.

Host:
A distant thunder rolled, the sound deep and resonant, like a heartbeat under the earth. The lights dimmed, leaving only one thin beam over the stage—Jack’s face half in shadow, half illuminated.

Jeeny:
You know, I think every layman believes they’re a critic because every person’s been an actor once—in their own life. We all pretend courage. We all fake forgiveness. We perform happiness for the world’s comfort.

Jack:
(quietly, with a flicker of awe)
So acting isn’t imitation—it’s revelation.

Jeeny:
(nodding slowly)
Exactly. It’s the mirror that forces us to stop lying to ourselves.

Host:
The rain slowed, tapering into a whisper. In that stillness, the theatre no longer felt empty. It felt alive—as if generations of performances still breathed through its walls, watching these two philosophers play their own small scene.

Jeeny:
(closing the notebook gently)
Maybe that’s what respect really means. Not applause, not awards. Just the recognition that to act—to become another—is to risk losing yourself for the sake of human truth.

Jack:
(softly, with reverence)
And to do it knowing everyone watching will still think they could do it better.

Jeeny:
(smiling, almost sadly)
That’s what makes it divine.

Host:
The lights dimmed completely, leaving only the soft glow from the emergency exit sign. Jack stepped off the stage and joined Jeeny in the aisle. They walked slowly toward the doors, their silhouettes fading into the darkness of the old theatre.

Outside, the rain began again, soft and endless, washing the world clean.

And in the silence they left behind, Simone Weil’s words lingered like a benediction—
a reminder that the truest artists are not those who perform for praise,
but those who dare to bare the soul before those who cannot see the cost.

For in every performance,
there lies the quiet courage
of being human
before a crowd
that thinks it already knows how.