The script was just the best I'd read in a long time and I love

When Stephen Collins said, “The script was just the best I'd read in a long time and I love the humor, which I wasn't expecting, and I like the fact that my six year old daughter can see the show without being, you know, protected from it,” he was not merely commenting on a screenplay — he was speaking to the timeless hunger for purity in art, for stories that uplift rather than corrupt, and for humor that enlightens rather than degrades. In his words shines an ancient truth: that art should feed both the mind and the heart, and that laughter, when born of goodness, becomes a bridge between generations.

In the ancient world, storytellers were not entertainers alone — they were teachers of virtue, guardians of memory, and healers of the spirit. Their tales did not shy away from sorrow or conflict, but they carried within them a light, a sense that even the darkest struggle could lead to redemption. Collins’s joy in finding humor that a child could witness safely reflects that same principle. He recognizes the sacred power of stories to shape the soul — especially the tender soul of a child — and the duty of artists to craft beauty without bitterness. His admiration for such a work is the admiration of a father, an artist, and a man yearning for innocence amid a world too quick to lose it.

The “humor” that surprised him is of a noble kind — the laughter that restores rather than wounds. In every age, such laughter has been medicine for the weary heart. The philosophers of old — from Aristotle to Cicero — taught that laughter, rightly used, purifies the soul, reminding us of our shared humanity. There is a kind of comedy that mocks the sacred, and another that reveals it — that allows us to see ourselves with compassion, not contempt. Collins’s delight in that discovery is a recognition of art’s highest calling: to make us laugh without shame, to find joy without cruelty.

There is an echo of this wisdom in the story of Charlie Chaplin, who lived in a time of hunger and fear, yet brought laughter to millions without losing tenderness. He did not need vulgarity or violence to move his audience; he needed only a tilted hat, a hopeful heart, and a glimmer of humanity. His humor spoke to the child within every adult, and to the adult within every child. Like Collins’s words, Chaplin’s art reminds us that innocence is not weakness — it is the strength to find beauty in simplicity, to believe that laughter can still be kind.

When Collins says he is glad his daughter can see the show “without being protected from it,” he is revealing something profound about trust — trust in art that does not corrupt, trust in stories that unite rather than divide. The world often teaches that to be mature is to be cynical, that only the dark and shocking are “real.” But he reminds us that truth can be gentle, that wisdom can wear a smile. The greatest art is not always the most violent, but the most sincere — the kind that speaks to both child and parent, both heart and intellect.

From this, we learn that purity in art is not naivety, but courage — the courage to believe that kindness still belongs in creation. Every artist, every parent, every soul who speaks or writes or teaches should take this to heart. The stories we create, the words we speak, the humor we share — these are seeds we plant in others. Let them be seeds of light. Let them be laughter that heals.

The lesson is eternal: Seek and cherish the kind of humor that uplifts, the kind of story that brings generations together rather than driving them apart. Let your art — whatever form it takes — be one your children could see without shame, one that leaves the heart lighter and the world gentler. For as Stephen Collins reminds us, the greatest beauty lies in what is pure enough for a child, yet profound enough for the wise.