The humor and emotion of the 'Do You Want to Build a Snowman'

Host:
The city lay asleep under a blanket of snow, its streets muted, soft, and silver beneath the streetlamps. Windows glowed in pockets of gold, breathing warmth into the cold air, and the world felt as if it were holding its breath. Inside a small theatre café, the fireplace crackled, casting orange shadows that danced across wooden tables and half-empty cups.

Jack sat near the window, his hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey, watching as snowflakes drifted in slow spirals down the glass pane. Jeeny, in a wool scarf, leaned forward, eyes bright, a smile trembling between joy and melancholy.

On the radio, faint but clear, the notes of “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” floated through the air, tender, aching, innocent.

Jeeny:
(softly) “Edward Kitsis once said, ‘The humor and emotion of the “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” theme makes me cry every time I watch it, and that deep emotion is something we’d love to do on the show. If we can make you cry, we always try to. And “Once,” when it’s at its best, is emotional and fun.’”
(She gazes toward the falling snow.)
“I understand that. To make people feel — that’s the closest thing we have to magic.”

Jack:
(snorts lightly, takes a sip) “Magic, huh? You mean manipulation. Those songs are crafted to poke at the tear ducts. It’s not emotion, it’s engineering. A perfectly designed cry machine for an audience that craves sentiment.”

Host:
The firelight flickered, painting his face in amber lines, revealing the battle between sarcasm and sorrow behind his eyes. Jeeny tilted her head, her gaze steady, as if studying not his words, but the cracks beneath them.

Jeeny:
“Maybe it’s engineered, Jack. But what if engineering is just another form of art? When a melody can pull at something buried, something you didn’t even know was still alive in you — isn’t that truth, not trickery?”

Jack:
“Truth is messy, Jeeny. It’s not written in chords or scenes. You can’t script heartbreak. You can only live it.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “Maybe. But art helps us remember how it feels. Sometimes that’s enough.”

Host:
The room was quiet, save for the soft rhythm of the music and the murmur of voices from the bar. Outside, a child’s laughter briefly broke through the glass, bright and sincere, like a note in a minor chord. Jack looked up, listening, then looked away quickly, as though the sound had betrayed something in him.

Jack:
“You know what’s funny? Everyone loves that song because it’s about innocence — but all I hear is loss. Two kids, one desperate for love, the other trapped in fear. And we call it beautiful.”

Jeeny:
“It is beautiful. Because it’s real. It’s the distance between hearts that makes us feel the pull. That’s what Kitsis means — to make you laugh, cry, ache, and still walk away smiling. That’s what stories are supposed to do — they make the broken parts sing.”

Jack:
“Or they make the broken parts louder, so we can pretend they’re art.”

Host:
A gust of wind shook the windows, rattling the frame like a heartbeat in the cold. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice grew firm, like warm steel beneath velvet.

Jeeny:
“Jack, you always talk about pretending. But what if pretending is how we heal? Every time we watch a film, or listen to a song, or cry for someone we’ve never met — we’re practicing empathy. That’s not fake. That’s human.”

Jack:
(quietly) “Empathy’s easy when there’s background music.”

Jeeny:
“Not for you. You still fight it. You think if you feel, you’ll fall apart.”

Host:
He looked at her, startled, as though she had just read aloud a secret he’d hidden even from himself. The fire crackled, a spark leaping upward, dying before it touched the chimney’s dark throat.

Jack’s voice dropped**, fragile now, almost a whisper.

Jack:
“Once… I used to cry at things like that. I don’t know when I stopped. Maybe it’s easier to watch the story than to live one.”

Jeeny:
(reaches across the table, her fingers brushing his hand) “Then maybe you need to start living again. Maybe that’s what these stories are trying to remind us — that we still can.”

Host:
The snow thickened outside, falling in silent swirls, erasing footprints, covering the city in forgiveness. A child outside began to build a snowman, his small gloves shaping the snow with care, laughter echoing into the night.

Jeeny watched, her eyes glistening, her voice soft as she spoke.

Jeeny:
“That’s why Do You Want to Build a Snowman works, Jack. It’s not just about a door closed — it’s about the hope that someone might still knock. That’s what Kitsis meant by fun and emotion living together. Life’s not just about crying or laughing. It’s about doing both, at the same time.”

Jack:
(watching the snow) “Maybe that’s what hurts — knowing that hope always comes with a shadow.”

Jeeny:
“Then we need both. The shadow makes the light visible.”

Host:
A silence settled, but it was a gentle one — the kind that wraps, not suffocates. The song on the radio ended, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause with it.

Then Jack laughed — quietly, reluctantly, but real.

Jack:
“You know, Jeeny, maybe you’re right. Maybe making people cry isn’t about sadness — it’s about reminding them they’re still alive. That they still feel.”

Jeeny:
(smiling through misty eyes) “Exactly. That’s the purpose of stories, Jack. Not to comfort us, but to wake us up. To make us feel enough to forgive the world again.”

Host:
The fire burned lower, its embers glowing like hearts refusing to die out. Outside, the child had finished his snowman and placed a red scarf around its neck, beaming with pride.

Jack and Jeeny watched in silence, their reflections side by side on the frosted glass, soft, blurred, human.

Jack:
“So, the goal is to make people cry, huh?”

Jeeny:
(laughs) “No, Jack. The goal is to make them remember why they can.”

Host:
And as the camera pulled back, the scene became a painting — two souls in a warm café, a snowman outside, a city asleep beneath falling grace.

The firelight flickered, the music faded, and all that remained was that thin thread of emotion Kitsis spoke of — the humor, the pain, the beauty of feeling everything at once.

A tear, a smile, and the quiet realization that maybe, in the end, every story worth telling is just another way of building a snowman —
in the cold,
with hope,
and with a heart still willing to thaw.