There are many movies which come with an attitude of black and

Host:
The screening room was half-lit — that beautiful liminal space between darkness and reflection, where the glow of a projector bulb seemed to hang like an artificial sun. Rows of red velvet seats stretched into shadow. A faint film reel hum filled the silence, steady and alive, like a heartbeat.

On the screen, the credits rolled in black and white — a war film, full of moral certainty, heroes and villains cleanly divided. The audience had already gone home, leaving behind the smell of popcorn and quiet judgment.

In the front row sat Jack, his elbows on his knees, a pen tucked behind his ear. He stared at the frozen frame: a soldier saluting, bathed in light. Beside him, Jeeny lounged back, her legs crossed, a notebook balanced on her lap. She wasn’t watching the film — she was watching Jack.

Jeeny: softly “Ashraf Barhom once said, ‘There are many movies which come with an attitude of black and white. I am good and you are bad. And there are many movies that are also trying to see the reality as it is or to discover what really is behind the character or events.’”

Jack: sighing “Yeah. The world loves its heroes simple — white hats, clean hands, righteous motives. Makes it easier to sleep at night.”

Jeeny: nodding “But it’s never that clean, is it? Real people aren’t scripts. They’re drafts — messy, crossed out, rewritten.”

Jack: smirking “You sound like you’re defending villains.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “No. I’m defending complexity.”

Host: The projector’s light flickered across their faces — Jack’s sharp, angular, analytical; Jeeny’s softer, searching, illuminated by empathy. The faint whir of the film reel seemed to sync with their voices, as if truth itself were being spooled and unspooled between them.

Jack: leaning back “Movies used to be moral compasses. Now they’re mirrors — cracked ones. Everyone wants ‘reality,’ but no one wants responsibility for what it shows.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe that’s what Barhom meant — that cinema should reflect the truth, not simplify it. Not make villains convenient.”

Jack: quietly “But simplification sells. Black and white wins box offices. Gray… makes people uncomfortable.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe discomfort is where understanding begins.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “You think audiences want to understand? They want catharsis, not confrontation.”

Jeeny: softly “And yet, isn’t confrontation the soul of art?”

Host: The screen light dimmed, flickering out as the reel came to an end. The room fell into true darkness — thick, contemplative. The absence of light felt heavier than the film itself.

Jack: after a pause “You know what bothers me? We make movies about heroes and monsters, but the truth is — most monsters think they’re heroes.”

Jeeny: quietly “Exactly. That’s why Barhom’s right. Real cinema shouldn’t judge. It should ask why. Why people become what they do. Why righteousness can rot. Why goodness sometimes wears the face of guilt.”

Jack: softly “But ‘why’ doesn’t sell tickets.”

Jeeny: gently “Then maybe it sells souls.”

Jack: half-smiling “You should write that on a poster.”

Jeeny: smiling back “I’d rather write it on someone’s conscience.”

Host: The faint click of the projector cooling filled the silence. A beam of dust swirled lazily through the air — the ghost of light, refusing to disappear.

Jack: after a moment “You know, growing up, I thought movies were truth. Then I started making them and realized they’re just perspective — someone’s truth pretending to be everyone’s.”

Jeeny: nodding “But maybe that’s what makes them powerful. Because in pretending, they still reveal what we’re afraid to admit.”

Jack: softly “That we need enemies to know who we are.”

Jeeny: quietly “And when we can’t find any, we invent them.”

Jack: after a pause “So the real conflict isn’t between good and evil.”

Jeeny: softly “No. It’s between ignorance and understanding.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping softly against the glass — like applause from the universe itself, slow and melancholic. The light from a distant streetlamp spilled into the room, carving soft halos around their silhouettes.

Jack: quietly “You know what I think? The best films aren’t moral lessons. They’re mirrors that make you flinch.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because they show you that you’re capable of both the hero’s kindness and the villain’s cruelty.”

Jack: softly “And that’s terrifying.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “That’s human.”

Jack: leaning forward “You think Barhom was talking about cinema or life?”

Jeeny: quietly “Both. Life is the longest film ever made — and no one gets to write their ending.”

Host: The streetlight flickered, and the reflection of its glow caught the edge of the projector lens — a perfect circle of gold trembling in the darkness, like an unblinking eye.

Jack: after a long silence “You know, I used to crave clarity — good, bad, right, wrong. But the older I get, the more I realize… truth’s just a series of competing sympathies.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. That’s why judgment is lazy. It’s easier to condemn than to comprehend.”

Jack: quietly “You ever think that’s why we keep making the same films — because we’d rather be comforted by lies than haunted by truth?”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe. But every so often, someone makes a film that reminds us how fragile our certainty is.”

Jack: smiling wryly “And people call it depressing.”

Jeeny: gently “When really, it’s honest.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, blurring the world beyond the glass into a painting of shadow and light — the perfect metaphor for their conversation. Inside, the projector light flickered once more, briefly illuminating the frozen image of a soldier again — his expression unreadable, caught between pride and regret.

Jack: staring at it “You know, I can’t tell if that guy’s the hero or the villain.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe he doesn’t know either.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe that’s what Barhom wanted us to see — that the line between good and evil isn’t drawn in the story, it’s drawn in the heart.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “And sometimes, it moves.”

Jack: quietly “You think we’ll ever stop needing the black and white?”

Jeeny: softly “Only when we finally learn to live in the gray — to see each other not as sides, but as stories.”

Host: The projector clicked off, the hum died, and silence filled the room — not the empty kind, but the full kind, the kind that waits for understanding.

Jack looked at Jeeny, then at the blank white screen in front of them — a canvas waiting for truth, waiting for courage.

And as the two sat there, framed by the soft glow of the storm outside, Ashraf Barhom’s words lingered — not as critique, but as compass:

That art, like life, is not a war between saints and sinners,
but a dialogue between light and shadow.

That the true story isn’t in who’s right or wrong,
but in why we all believe we are.

And that cinema — like humanity — reaches its highest form
not when it preaches virtue,
but when it dares to understand what lies
behind the character,
behind the act,
behind the heart.

Fade out.