Most of my life I have played a lot of famous people but most of

Host: The theatre was empty, its rows of seats bathed in dusty amber light from a single spotlight that still hung over the stage, like the sun refusing to set. The smell of old velvet, wood polish, and ghosted applause lingered in the air.

Jack stood at center stage, hands in his pockets, gazing at the rows of emptiness where an audience used to breathe. His grey eyes reflected the light — a mix of steel and melancholy.

In the front row, Jeeny sat cross-legged on a folded seat, notebook in her lap, pen tapping gently against her chin. The silence between them was the kind only old theatres could hold — heavy, sacred, and filled with memory.

A quote had just been spoken, and it still echoed softly in the rafters:

“Most of my life I have played a lot of famous people, but most of them were dead, so you have a poetic license.”
— Christopher Plummer

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You always liked that one, didn’t you?”

Jack: gruffly “Yeah. Because it’s true. The dead can’t argue.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem, Jack. The dead can’t defend themselves either.”

Jack: turns toward her, arms crossed “They don’t need to. Once you’re gone, your story belongs to the living. We reshape it, edit it, romanticize it. That’s how memory works. That’s how history survives.”

Host: The spotlight flickered, casting long, trembling shadows across the stage — like ghosts shifting in their seats, listening.

Jeeny: “So you think truth is just a kind of fiction, then? A story rewritten until it fits our comfort?”

Jack: “Of course. Look at the way we remember Churchill — the hero, not the colonialist. Or Gandhi — the saint, not the politician with flaws. We sculpt people into symbols, Jeeny. That’s not truth; it’s art. It’s the poetic license Plummer was talking about.”

Jeeny: “But art shouldn’t erase — it should reveal. It’s supposed to breathe the truth back into what’s forgotten.”

Jack: “No, it’s supposed to make you feel something. Truth is just a side effect.”

Host: The air in the theatre shifted, as if the building itself were listening to their argument. Somewhere backstage, a rope creaked, and a curtain stirred.

Jeeny: “You sound like every director who’s ever said, ‘It doesn’t have to be accurate — it just has to be dramatic.’”

Jack: shrugs “Because that’s the job. We’re not historians; we’re illusionists. The audience doesn’t come to see the truth — they come to see it beautifully lied about.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical.”

Jack: “That’s honest.”

Jeeny: leans forward “Then where does honor come in, Jack? Where’s the respect for the people whose lives you’re borrowing? You think Plummer meant license as in permission, but I think he meant responsibility — the poetic kind, the kind that comes with care.”

Jack: pauses, voice lower “You can’t honor someone without interpreting them. That’s the paradox. The moment you speak for the dead, you’ve already changed their truth.”

Host: A ray of light from the back door split through the dark, illuminating the floating dust — tiny motes drifting like memory fragments in the theatrical air.

Jeeny watched them with a wistful look, as if she could see the past in their motion.

Jeeny: “But what if that’s the point? Maybe every retelling is a form of resurrection. We call them back for a moment, even if it’s just through our version. Isn’t that beautiful, in its own way?”

Jack: half-smiling “You sound like a poet. But beauty can be a weapon, too. Look at the way we romanticize tragedy — Monroe, Cobain, Heath Ledger. We turn their pain into aesthetic, their death into brand. You call it resurrection; I call it exploitation.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we still watch their films, still listen to their songs, still cry over their stories. Maybe memory and myth are just two sides of the same coin — one truthful, one beautiful, both necessary.”

Host: Her voice carried softly, echoing against the walls of the empty hall, where decades of voices had once performed their own versions of truth.

Jack walked to the edge of the stage, looking down at the front rows — the ghost audience, the absent applause.

Jack: quietly “You know, I once played a soldier. A real guy — dead before I was even born. His daughter came to the premiere. After the film, she told me she recognized her father’s eyes in one scene. She said she could feel him again, just for a moment. That’s when I realized... maybe you’re right. Maybe it isn’t about accuracy. Maybe it’s about presence.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s all anyone wants, Jack — to be felt again.”

Host: A silence settled between them — not the kind that separates, but the kind that heals. The spotlight dimmed, and the shadows grew softer, like forgiveness.

Jeeny: “Maybe every actor is a kind of medium — speaking for the dead, but also teaching the living how to listen.”

Jack: “And every performance a kind of confession.”

Jeeny: “Or a prayer.”

Jack: “Then who’s it to? The dead we’re pretending to understand, or the living we’re trying to impress?”

Jeeny: “Both. That’s the poetic license. It’s not freedom from truth — it’s the burden of it.”

Host: The stage light shifted, and for a moment, it caught both their faces in the same golden hue — two souls, one rooted in reality, the other in reverence, both trying to make sense of what it means to portray the human spirit.

A faint piano note echoed from somewhere backstage, a soundcheck left on by a forgotten technician, haunting in its loneliness.

Jack: smiles faintly “You ever think that’s what Plummer really meant? That we all live like actors, just trying to give our roles a little more meaning before the curtain falls?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. And maybe the only license we ever truly have is to make the story a little more beautiful before it ends.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of the exit sign. Jack looked out into the darkness, imagining faces that weren’t there, applause that had long faded — yet somehow, it all still mattered.

Jeeny stood, walked up the stage steps, and placed her hand on his shoulder.

Jeeny: “Come on, Jack. The dead have had their scene. Time for the living to write theirs.”

Host: And as they walked offstage, their shadows mingled and disappeared into the dark wings, leaving only the echo of their footsteps, and the faint rustle of curtains — like spirits applauding the truth that art, life, and death all share the same script, rewritten endlessly by those who dare to speak it.

The camera lingered on the empty stage, on the spotlight’s last shimmer, and then faded to black — as if to say:

Every story is a ghost,
and every actor is its voice.