Newport Center has become a Mediterranean town. The climate here

Host: The sun hung low over Newport Center, pouring its molten light over rows of white arches and terracotta rooftops that glowed like warm stone. The sea nearby shimmered like a sheet of liquid glass, and the air was filled with that distinct, soft salt-breeze that seemed to hum with prosperity.
Palms swayed in disciplined formation, the streets immaculate, the shadows carefully designed. Every corner, every curve seemed to declare — this was planned.

In a quiet plaza, between the polished fountains and bronze sculptures, two figures sat at a marble table outside a café. Jack and Jeeny.

Jack wore a linen shirt, rolled at the sleeves, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He stirred his espresso with an idle hand — the kind of gesture that hid thought behind elegance.

Jeeny, in a light sundress, her hair swept by the ocean wind, gazed across the plaza. The reflections of light danced across her face, like ripples of contemplation.

Host: The afternoon had that cinematic stillness — the kind that belongs to a world too perfect to be real.

Jeeny: “Donald Bren once said — ‘Newport Center has become a Mediterranean town. The climate here is the same as the Mediterranean’s, and so is the architecture. This center exudes a radiance, an energy. It will become a special way of life for everyone.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “A special way of life for everyone… sure — as long as you can afford it.”

Host: The breeze caught the edges of his voice, carrying a trace of irony through the golden air.

Jeeny: “You always see cynicism in ambition, Jack.”

Jack: “I see exclusivity dressed up as utopia. This place —” (he gestures around) “— isn’t a ‘Mediterranean town.’ It’s an imitation. A simulation of authenticity. The original Mediterranean — Italy, Greece, southern France — those places grew. This was built.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what civilization is? Building a dream where there was none?”

Jack: “A dream for whom, Jeeny? Look around.” He motioned toward the passersby — manicured, elegant, carrying designer bags and carefully curated ease. “No one here sweats. No one struggles. Bren didn’t build a town — he built a filter.”

Host: The light caught the marble beneath their table, throwing faint reflections upward. Even the shadows looked rehearsed.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s harsh. He didn’t just build shops and condos — he built a vision. A place meant to elevate how people live. Look — the architecture, the gardens, the open air — it’s meant to inspire calm, beauty, connection.”

Jack: (leans forward, his voice sharpening) “Inspire? Or pacify? Beauty without struggle becomes decoration. These plazas — they look like European towns, but they’ve erased the one thing Europe still has: history. Here, the sun shines all the time. No rust, no grit, no memory.”

Host: A pause lingered. The wind rustled through the palms, whispering like old ghosts who had no place here.

Jeeny: “You talk like beauty is a sin.”

Jack: “No. I’m saying beauty without honesty is hollow. Bren’s Mediterranean isn’t born of centuries of survival, wars, and culture — it’s a luxury template. You know what it reminds me of? Las Vegas. Except instead of selling sin, it sells serenity.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And what’s wrong with serenity, Jack?”

Jack: “When it’s only for some, everything’s wrong with it.”

Host: The tone shifted — the conversation deepened. A seagull drifted across the sky above, its shadow cutting across the polished stone like a passing thought.

Jeeny: “You always go back to inequality. But you forget — progress begins with imagination. Bren saw empty land and imagined a way of life that didn’t exist yet. Isn’t that the same kind of vision that built cities, cathedrals, art — even revolutions?”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. Cathedrals were built by faith. Revolutions by necessity. This —” he gestured again around them — “this was built by capital. There’s a difference between building for meaning and building for margin.”

Host: Jeeny looked out at the people walking under bougainvillea trellises, their laughter faint under the hum of fountains. Her eyes reflected a kind of sadness — not of disagreement, but of recognition.

Jeeny: “Maybe both are true. Maybe capital is just the modern cathedral. People used to worship God — now they worship design.”

Jack: “Exactly. And that’s what frightens me. When a place like this becomes a symbol of a ‘special way of life,’ we start confusing comfort with culture.”

Jeeny: “But comfort is culture, now. Look at how people live — open spaces, clean lines, sustainability. Isn’t that what we’ve always wanted? Peace, order, beauty?”

Jack: “Wanted? Maybe. Needed? I’m not so sure.”

Host: The sun began to dip, the light turning soft and amber. The café filled with the murmur of early diners, the clink of silverware, the distant rhythm of waves colliding with glass condos.

Jeeny: “You can’t resent a man for wanting to make paradise possible.”

Jack: “Paradise built by exclusion is still a kind of prison. It just smells nicer.”

Jeeny: “So what do you suggest, Jack? That we stop building beautiful things because they’re expensive?”

Jack: “No. I’m saying beauty should be shared, not sold.”

Host: A flicker of silence again. The kind that arrives not from disagreement, but from the sting of truth half-acknowledged.

Jeeny: “You know,” she said quietly, “the real Mediterranean — the one you revere — wasn’t just history and hardship. It was hospitality. People opening doors, sharing food, music spilling into the streets. Maybe that’s the spirit Bren was reaching for — not imitation, but evocation.”

Jack: “And yet here, the doors are closed. The spirit’s been monetized.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s up to us to bring the soul into the structure. Places are what people make them.”

Host: The sky deepened to a bruised orange, fading into soft violet. The lights of the plaza flickered on, one by one, like a slow heartbeat.

Jack leaned back, finally removing his sunglasses. His grey eyes were weary, but a glint of reflection lingered there — a kind of reluctant concession.

Jack: “Maybe I’m too harsh. Maybe it’s not the architecture’s fault. Maybe it’s ours — the people who forget that imitation should lead us back to the real thing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The Mediterranean was never just a place. It was a way of feeling — sunlight, conversation, community. Maybe Bren was right. Maybe that’s what this place can still become.”

Host: A faint smile curved on both their lips. The fountain nearby caught the last of the sunlight, scattering it into fragments of gold across the stone.

The city hummed with the promise of night — laughter from the restaurants, the scent of salt and rosemary, the sound of ocean wind weaving through glass towers and tiled walls.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That maybe imitation isn’t always deception. Sometimes it’s yearning — a human attempt to recreate what feels eternal.”

Jack: (after a moment) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t an illusion. Maybe it’s a prayer — made of steel and stucco.”

Host: The camera drifted upward, capturing the curve of the plaza below — lights glowing like constellations, people walking, laughing, living. Above them, the twilight sky was pure, vast, and forgiving.

Jack and Jeeny sat beneath the fountain’s soft spray, silent now, the argument dissolved into understanding. Around them, the city Bren dreamed of exhaled its quiet radiance — both artificial and real, both paradise and paradox.

And as the first stars appeared above the Pacific, Jeeny whispered — almost to herself —

Jeeny: “Maybe a special way of life isn’t about perfection. Maybe it’s just about believing the world can still be made beautiful.”

Host: The camera held that moment — the light, the sea, the silence. Then faded slowly, like the end of a dream that never truly ended, only changed shape.