Seeing the actual 'The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch

Host: The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes — each one glimmering under the soft amber streetlights like fragments of quiet dreams. It was late, the kind of London winter night when the world feels muffled, as if wrapped in a blanket woven from nostalgia and frost. Inside a small, old-fashioned cinema, the projector hummed, casting beams of light and shadow across red velvet seats. The poster outside read: The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe — 20th Anniversary Screening.

Jack sat near the back, his coat draped over the chair beside him, his grey eyes glinting faintly with the reflection of the screen. Jeeny, beside him, clutched a paper cup of hot cocoa, the steam rising between them like a quiet ghost. Around them sat only a handful of others — older now, perhaps revisiting the magic that had once belonged to their childhood.

Jeeny: “Will Poulter once said, ‘Seeing the actual Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, I absolutely loved it. It became one of my favourite films. It was a real Christmas classic, and it was one of the most popular films ever in British history.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You know, I remember when that movie came out. Everyone called it the rebirth of wonder. Kids wanted to crawl into wardrobes; adults pretended they didn’t.”

Host: The screen flickered, and Lucy Pevensie appeared, brushing aside coats to step into a world of snow and lamplight. The light reflected across Jeeny’s face — her eyes wide, her expression soft, as though she, too, were seeing it for the first time again.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something can feel both like fantasy and memory at the same time. I think that’s why people loved it — because it reminded them of belief.”

Jack: “Belief?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not in magic necessarily, but in meaning. That somewhere, behind the ordinary — behind a door, behind a winter storm — there’s something bigger waiting.”

Host: The soundtrack swelled, strings rising like wind through frozen trees. The cinema light danced across their faces — blue, gold, white — shifting with each scene, as if they, too, were being pulled through Narnia’s shifting seasons.

Jack: “You sound like a child again.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what stories like this do. They give you back the part of yourself the world took.”

Jack: “You mean innocence.”

Jeeny: “No. Faith. Innocence dies when you stop believing in safety. Faith dies when you stop believing in wonder.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it carried — as if the entire theatre had leaned closer to hear. The snow outside thickened, pressing against the glass in slow, lazy waves.

Jack: “You think movies can still do that? Awaken something real?”

Jeeny: “If they couldn’t, you wouldn’t be here watching one.”

Jack: “Fair point.” (pauses) “But maybe it’s not the movie. Maybe it’s nostalgia — the illusion of warmth when life was simpler.”

Jeeny: “Maybe nostalgia is warmth. Maybe it’s the body remembering what the soul forgot.”

Host: On screen, Aslan roared, his voice shaking both the world of Narnia and the theatre’s walls. The sound was immense, noble, ancient. Jack flinched slightly, his jaw tightening, his hands clenching around his cup.

Jack: “I used to think Aslan was just a metaphor — the kind adults cling to when they want their children’s books to mean something profound.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think he was a reminder. That courage isn’t born from strength. It’s born from loss.”

Host: The light dimmed on screen as the White Witch appeared, her world cold and cruel — winter without Christmas. Jeeny leaned forward, her brow furrowed slightly.

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s a Christmas classic — not because it’s cheerful, but because it’s about resurrection. About the thaw. Every winter carries its own promise of spring.”

Jack: “Even this one?”

Jeeny: “Especially this one.”

Host: A child in the audience laughed — a small, spontaneous burst of joy at the appearance of talking beavers. The sound rippled through the quiet theatre, breaking its reverence, reminding everyone that even wonder must breathe.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You know, Poulter was right. It’s more than a movie. It’s a memory that refuses to age.”

Jeeny: “Because it belongs to everyone who ever needed to believe that goodness wins — even when it doesn’t look like it will.”

Host: The credits began to roll, the music swelling, the snow both on screen and outside falling in perfect synchrony. The lights rose slowly, revealing the faces of those who had stayed — quiet smiles, glistening eyes, old souls revisiting their own first courage.

Jack: (softly) “You ever wonder if we outgrow wonder, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we just forget where we left it. And sometimes, a story like this hands it back.”

Host: They sat for a moment longer, neither moving — the last two figures in a fading dream. The projector clicked, the light dimmed, and the theatre fell into that lovely silence that comes only after something sacred has ended.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we tell stories — to remember that behind every winter, there’s still a lion waiting.”

Jack: (nodding) “And behind every cynic, there’s still a child waiting to open the wardrobe.”

Host: The camera pulled back, through the cinema doors, out into the snowy street, where the world glowed faintly under lamplight. The marquee lights flickered above the entrance, letters gleaming in melting snow: “A Real Christmas Classic.”

And as the scene dissolved into white, Will Poulter’s words echoed softly, like the last notes of a carol drifting through the night:

that sometimes, the greatest stories
aren’t about escape,
but remembrance —

remembrance of the courage we once had,
the faith we once held,
and the child within us
who still believes
that somewhere,
in the hush between seasons,
a door waits,
and through it —
the world begins again.