There are a lot of movies I'd like to throw away. That's not to

Host: The studio lights hummed like distant insects—a low, relentless sound beneath the stale air of disappointment. Film reels lay unspooled across the floor, glinting under the dim amber glow of a single desk lamp. A half-empty bottle of bourbon leaned against a stack of old scripts, each covered in notes, scribbles, and the ghosts of ideas that once felt like salvation.

Jack sat hunched in a cracked leather chair, his hands clasped loosely, his eyes hollow but awake. Jeeny stood by the window, her reflection tangled in the glass—half light, half shadow. Outside, the city glimmered faintly, unaware of their small, quiet storm.

The clock ticked, soft but cruel, marking time between failure and acceptance.

Jeeny: gently “Kiefer Sutherland once said, ‘There are a lot of movies I’d like to throw away. That’s not to say that I went in with that attitude. Any film I ever started, I went in with all the hope and best intentions in the world, but some films just don’t work.’”

Host: Her voice lingered in the stale air, soft but sharp, like the echo of a memory you wish you could unhear.

Jack: leans back, staring at the ceiling “Yeah. I know that feeling too well. You go in believing you’re building something immortal. Then one day, you watch it fall apart, and you realize—maybe it was never meant to stand.”

Jeeny: “But you tried. That’s what matters.”

Jack: “Does it? Trying doesn’t change the fact that it failed. You can pour your soul into something and still end up with rubble.”

Host: He reached for his glass, his hand trembling slightly, the liquid reflecting a trembling version of his face.

Jeeny: “Maybe the rubble still tells a story, Jack. Maybe it’s not about perfection—it’s about honesty.”

Jack: bitter laugh “Honesty doesn’t sell tickets.”

Jeeny: “But it makes art.”

Jack: looks at her, eyes narrowed “You think art survives without an audience? A film nobody watches is just a diary with lighting.”

Jeeny: “And yet diaries have saved people. Art doesn’t need applause to mean something. Sometimes the ones that fail are the ones that told the truth too soon.”

Host: The lamp flickered, its light pulsing in rhythm with their voices. Jack turned to the wall, where faded posters hung like tombstones—titles that once promised brilliance but only delivered exhaustion.

Jack: “You remember that documentary I made? The one about the migrant workers? Critics called it ‘earnest but unfocused.’ Took three years of my life. I thought it would change something. All it changed was me—into someone too tired to believe anymore.”

Jeeny: softly “That film mattered, Jack. Maybe not in the way you wanted, but it mattered.”

Jack: “No one saw it, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “I did.”

Host: Her eyes shone under the lamp, dark and steady. For a moment, Jack looked at her—not like an opponent, but like someone who’d held one of his crumbling walls in her bare hands and refused to let it fall.

Jack: “You always defend the failures.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where the truth hides.”

Host: The rain began to patter faintly against the window, small drops tracing slow, silver lines across the glass.

Jack: “You know what the worst part is? You start a film believing it’ll heal something in you. Then halfway through, you realize it’s cutting deeper instead.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s still healing, Jack. The kind that hurts before it helps.”

Jack: “No. That’s delusion.”

Jeeny: “You call it delusion because it doesn’t end in applause. But what if creation isn’t about winning? What if it’s about the attempt itself?”

Host: Jack set his glass down, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His eyes were tired, but not lifeless. There was still a small flicker of rebellion behind them—like a candle refusing to die out.

Jack: “So you’re saying every failure deserves forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying it deserves remembrance.”

Jack: leans forward “Why remember pain? Why not just burn the reels, delete the files, pretend it never happened?”

Jeeny: “Because if you erase the failures, you erase the road that got you here. Every broken frame, every lost scene—it’s part of the story that teaches you how to see.”

Host: Her words were soft, but they landed heavy, like small stones thrown into still water, rippling through him.

Jack: “You sound like a priest of regret.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “No. I’m just someone who believes that art—like people—isn’t meant to be perfect. It’s meant to be human.”

Host: The rain thickened, turning the windowpane into a trembling mirror. Jack stood, pacing, his shadow slicing across the floor like a film strip of someone trying to escape himself.

Jack: “But some things you make—you wish you hadn’t. The ones where you compromise too much, or lie to yourself for the sake of a paycheck. Those are the real ghosts.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even ghosts remind us what we’ve lost. Isn’t that something worth keeping?”

Jack: “You think failure has poetry in it.”

Jeeny: “It does. Every failed film is a confession. A record of someone’s belief that the world could change for two hours.”

Host: Jack stopped, his back to her, his breathing heavy. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving trails of frustration.

Jack: “You ever wonder if some dreams should just be left unmade?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But I’d rather make a flawed dream than live flawless apathy.”

Host: Silence again. Only the soft hum of the lamp and the rhythmic heartbeat of rain.

Jeeny walked to the shelf, picked up a small reel, its metal cool under her fingers. She held it up to the light.

Jeeny: “This one—what was it called?”

Jack: sighs “The Longest Winter. Never released. Studio hated it. Too slow, too bleak.”

Jeeny: “I remember reading your notes. You said it was about forgiveness.”

Jack: “It was about exhaustion. Forgiveness came after.”

Jeeny: places the reel down carefully “Then maybe it worked after all.”

Host: Jack looked at her, really looked, and for the first time that night, something broke—something quiet but deep.

Jack: “Do you know how it feels to love something that doesn’t love you back?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s what art is.”

Host: The lamplight trembled between them, catching in the wet shine of their eyes. The studio felt smaller now, as if their shared silence had become its own scene.

Jack: “You think Kiefer was right, then? Some films just don’t work?”

Jeeny: “He was right. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t worth making. Every broken film carries its own kind of truth. Maybe it didn’t work for the world—but it worked for the soul that made it.”

Jack: “And if the soul is tired?”

Jeeny: “Then let it rest. But don’t deny it its history.”

Host: The rain softened to a whisper, the city beyond now washed clean, reborn. Jack walked toward the window, watching the water trace its last paths down the glass.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what it means to be a filmmaker. Or a human, really. To keep trying to capture something that keeps slipping away.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And sometimes, what slips away is what teaches us how to hold.”

Host: The lamp dimmed. Jack sat back down beside her. Between them, the reels—their small monuments to both failure and faith—gleamed like relics of a forgotten church.

Jack: “You know… maybe I won’t throw them away.”

Jeeny: “Good. Maybe one day, you’ll look at them and see what they really are.”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Proof that you believed.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely. In the silence, the city’s hum returned—distant, alive, forgiving. Jack leaned back, exhaling, as if some unseen weight had finally lifted.

Outside, the sky cracked open to reveal a faint morning light—thin, trembling, but real.

Host: And in that fragile light, among the ruins of discarded dreams, something small but undeniable stirred—
not triumph, not fame,
but peace.

For some films don’t work,
but some hearts do.