Rhetoric does not get you anywhere, because Hitler and Mussolini

Host: The stage was empty, save for a single spotlight glowing against a black curtain. Its light cut through the shadows like a blade, sharp and unwavering. The faint smell of dust, old velvet, and electric heat filled the air — the scent of every performance, every failure, every confession ever made beneath stage lights.

In the middle of the stage sat two chairs — one occupied by Jack, the other by Jeeny. The audience seats were vacant, endless rows of darkness stretching into nothing. Above them, the ceiling lights hummed softly, as though listening.

Jeeny crossed one leg over the other, her hands resting loosely on her lap. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth — that dangerous mix of curiosity and skepticism.

Between them, scrawled on a sheet of paper taped to the floor, were Mel Brooks’s words:

“Rhetoric does not get you anywhere, because Hitler and Mussolini are just as good at rhetoric. But if you can bring these people down with comedy, they stand no chance.”

Host: The air was thick with thought. Somewhere backstage, a lone bulb flickered.

Jack: “He’s right, you know. Rhetoric’s just manipulation dressed in vocabulary. But comedy… that’s a scalpel.”

Jeeny: “A scalpel that cuts where weapons can’t.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s the last freedom we have — to laugh at what scares us.”

Jeeny: “Or to laugh at what we’ve given too much power to.”

Host: The spotlight trembled slightly as though the air itself had shifted. Their faces glowed with that fragile half-light — two minds locked in the oldest war: logic versus faith, cynicism versus compassion.

Jack: “You know what’s brilliant about Brooks? He understood something dangerous — that dictators feed on seriousness. Fear and reverence are their oxygen. Mock them, and they suffocate.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but that’s also why laughter is feared. It disarms without blood. Satire was banned under every regime that understood its power.”

Host: The echo of her words lingered. A faint clatter sounded in the distance, like an unseen hand knocking on the hollow ribs of the stage.

Jack: “You think that still holds true now? The world’s full of tyrants — political, corporate, digital. But comedy today feels… commercialized. Polite. Everyone’s afraid to offend.”

Jeeny: “Because offense replaced fear. We live in a culture where every word is landmined. But Brooks’s laughter — it wasn’t cruelty. It was rebellion. He mocked evil without losing empathy.”

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t defeat monsters, Jeeny. Mockery does. Fear feeds on reverence, and reverence is born of silence.”

Jeeny: “No. Mockery without empathy just becomes another kind of tyranny. It divides instead of freeing. Brooks didn’t just mock — he humanized the absurd. He exposed power by making it ridiculous.”

Host: The light shifted slightly, catching Jeeny’s eyes, which glimmered with that strange mixture of conviction and sorrow — the look of someone who has both loved humanity and despaired of it.

Jack: “So you’re saying laughter redeems us?”

Jeeny: “It reminds us that no one — not kings, not gods, not dictators — can control the human spirit once it starts laughing.”

Jack: “And yet, people still die for jokes.”

Jeeny: “They always have. But what’s more dangerous than laughter is silence.”

Host: The wind moaned faintly through the cracked ceiling vent, like a whisper from history itself.

Jack: “You know what this reminds me of? Chaplin. The Great Dictator. The man risked everything to mock Hitler when the world still doubted what he was. He didn’t use rhetoric — he used irony.”

Jeeny: “And irony is sharper than any sword. That’s why every tyrant tries to outlaw it.”

Jack: “But here’s the catch. Comedy’s power only works if people still care enough to laugh.”

Jeeny: “They will. They always do. Laughter isn’t escape — it’s resistance.”

Host: Jeeny stood, walked toward the edge of the stage. The spotlight followed her, throwing her shadow long across the wooden floor.

Jeeny: “Comedy is sacred because it turns pain into perspective. It’s how humanity refuses to kneel.”

Jack: “But doesn’t it risk trivializing tragedy?”

Jeeny: “Only when it’s hollow. Real comedy doesn’t make suffering small — it makes the heart big enough to hold it.”

Host: The light caught her hand as she gestured, her fingers cutting through the dust motes like small comets. Jack’s gaze followed — steady, conflicted.

Jack: “You know, I never trusted comedians. They smile while dissecting truth. It feels like betrayal.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s mercy. Because truth without laughter is unbearable.”

Host: A long pause. The sound of her last word seemed to stretch through the rafters like a final note played too long.

Jack: (softly) “Do you think Brooks was afraid?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But he turned fear into rhythm. Into punchlines. That’s the genius — to wield fear like a joke instead of letting it wield you.”

Host: Jack rose slowly, his shadow merging with hers on the stage floor. The light between them narrowed — like two sides of an idea collapsing toward one another.

Jack: “So rhetoric builds walls. Comedy opens doors.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Rhetoric demands belief. Comedy demands reflection.”

Jack: “Then why do people fear it?”

Jeeny: “Because it exposes the emperor’s nakedness — and the crowd’s complicity.”

Host: Her words landed like thunder muffled by velvet. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of faint applause — not real, but remembered — rippled through the air.

Jack: “You think we could ever laugh evil out of existence?”

Jeeny: “Not out of existence. But out of authority. Laughter doesn’t erase darkness, Jack. It just reminds it that it’s not the only thing there.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment — then smiled, quietly, as though something inside him had unclenched.

Jack: “So that’s how we fight now. With jokes.”

Jeeny: “With truth wrapped in humor — because people lower their shields for laughter. And once the shields are down, truth enters.”

Host: The spotlight began to dim, narrowing until only their faces remained illuminated — two figures in a universe of darkness, defying it with nothing but words and a glimmer of shared understanding.

Jack: “You know, for someone who believes in comedy, you take it awfully seriously.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because it’s sacred work. To make people laugh in a burning world — that’s the closest thing we have to grace.”

Host: The light faded to black. For a moment, only silence remained. Then — a faint sound: laughter. Not mocking, not cruel — but free. Real.

And as it echoed across the empty seats, it grew — until it filled the theatre, until it became something larger than sound.

Host: Because Mel Brooks was right — rhetoric controls minds, but laughter liberates souls.

For in the end, words may build power,
but only laughter has the courage to tear it down.