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

Host:
The city night was a miracle of silence, painted in white. Snow fell softly, like memory descending from heaven, touching the streetlamps, turning them into orbs of gold. Inside a small art studio, the walls were lined with half-finished paintings — faces, landscapes, eyes that looked as if they were about to cry. A record player spun in the corner, whispering the faint melody of “Do You Want to Build a Snowman.”

Jack stood near the window, his hands tucked into his coat, watching the snow drift past the glass. Jeeny sat on the floor, legs crossed, painting on a small canvas, her brow furrowed, focused, tender.

The fireplace glowed, its light reaching across the room like warm hands, touching everything gently.

Jeeny:
(without looking up)
“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 sets her brush down, looks up at him, her eyes reflecting the firelight.)
“I love that. It’s… honest. You know? That idea that if you can make someone cry, you’ve made them feel. That’s the whole purpose of art.”

Jack:
(smirks, turning from the window)
“Purpose? Or manipulation? You artists — you talk about emotion like it’s divine, but half the time it’s just crafted sentiment. A few notes, a few words, and boom — instant tears. Manufactured meaning for people who can’t handle reality.”

Host:
The record crackled, the needle trembling on the vinyl’s edge. A snowflake landed on the window, melted, and slid down, leaving a trail like a tear. Jeeny watched it, her expression calm, her voice soft, but steady as a heartbeat.

Jeeny:
“You call it manufactured, but what if it’s just translation? Art doesn’t invent emotion, Jack — it reveals it. It’s like holding up a mirror to your own heart, one you’ve been too afraid to look into.”

Jack:
(shrugs, coldly) “Mirrors lie too. They flatten, they frame. You see what you want to see. That’s what these emotional stories do — they edit the human condition until it’s palatable. Frozen, Once Upon a Time… they all sell the same illusion — that pain can be redeemed if it’s beautiful enough.”

Jeeny:
(leans forward, eyes flashing) “And what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with wanting beauty in the middle of pain? The world doesn’t need more realism, Jack. It needs hope. That’s what Once gave people — the idea that even in darkness, you can still find fun, still find feeling. That’s not a lie. That’s courage.”

Host:
The fire crackled louder, as if arguing with him too. Shadows danced across the walls, flickering between light and dark, hope and doubt. Jack stepped closer, his face hard, but his eyes tired, the way loneliness hides behind logic.

Jack:
“You call it courage — I call it escapism. You want to cry at a song because it’s safer than crying at your own life. The pain in a story is contained — it has a beginning, a climax, a resolution. Real life doesn’t give you that. It just keeps going.”

Jeeny:
(softly, but fierce) “Maybe that’s why we need stories. Because life doesn’t give us the closure we crave. So we borrow it. We let a song, or a show, or a painting finish the sentence our hearts never could.”

Jack:
“And then we forget it all when the credits roll.”

Jeeny:
“No. We carry it. Quietly. Like a secret light.”

Host:
A long silence hung between them. The record had ended, but the room still echoed with the ghost of its melody. Jack sat down across from her, his breath fogging faintly in the cold air.

Jack:
“You really think making someone cry makes a story great?”

Jeeny:
“It’s not about the tears, Jack. It’s about what causes them. That ache — the one between humor and hurt — that’s where the truth lives. That’s what Kitsis meant. Emotion and fun, pain and joy — they’re not opposites. They’re partners.”

Jack:
(studies her) “So laughter and tears are the same thing?”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “Two halves of the same song.”

Host:
The fire dimmed, its flames curling low, embers glowing like small hearts in the dark. Jeeny picked up her brush again, but instead of painting, she just dipped it into the water, watching the ripples spread, delicate, inevitable.

Jack:
“You think people want to feel that deeply?”

Jeeny:
“They already do. They just forget. Stories help them remember. When we cry in a theatre, we’re not crying for fictional people — we’re crying for ourselves, for all the things we never said, all the snowmen we never built.”

Jack:
(quietly) “That song always bothered me. It’s… innocent. But it’s begging. It’s a child trying to fix a door that will never open.”

Jeeny:
(gently) “And yet, she keeps knocking. That’s why it’s beautiful. That’s why it hurts. Because it reminds us that love keeps asking, even when it keeps being refused.”

Host:
A single tear slipped down Jeeny’s cheek, and she didn’t hide it. Jack watched, something in him breaking — or maybe beginning. The snow outside fell heavier, layering the streets in silence. The studio felt like a pause between heartbeats.

Jack:
(voice low) “You really think that’s what we’re meant to do? Just keep… knocking?”

Jeeny:
(nodding, her smile trembling) “Yes. Because one day, someone opens. And that moment — that’s what makes the whole story worth it.”

Host:
He looked at her for a long time, then laughed softly, a sound half disbelief, half relief. Jeeny laughed too, through her tears, and for the first time, the room felt full — of light, of music, of something unspoken but completely real.

Jack:
(smiling) “So that’s it — cry if you can, laugh if you must.”

Jeeny:
(whispering) “And if you can do both… you’ve touched something true.”

Host:
The snow kept falling, soft, steady, endless. The record began again, crackling, fragile, pure. The camera pulled back, through the window, past the lights, into the night — where two souls sat, human, open, alive.

Between them, humor and emotion had become one — a single, trembling note of beauty that lingered, unresolved, and perfect.

And as the music played, and the snow fell, the world — for just one quiet moment — remembered how to feel.