We are not trying to entertain the critics. I'll take my chances

Host: The studio lights flickered above a cluttered workshop, their yellow glow bouncing off sheets of storyboards, paints, and half-sketched dreams. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, pencil dust, and that particular kind of tension that only exists between art and expectation.

Outside, rain drummed against the windows, turning the city night into a blur of reflections. Inside, two voices rose above the silence — one edged with skepticism, the other alive with conviction.

Jack sat near the animation desk, his sleeves rolled up, the light catching the sharp angle of his jaw. A stack of critics’ reviews lay beside him — red marks, scribbled opinions, words like “sentimental,” “childish,” “naïve.” Jeeny stood across the room, her hands dusted with charcoal, her eyes bright, defiant, and unwilling to yield.

Jeeny: “You’re staring at those reviews like they’re commandments, Jack. They’re just words — not truth.”

Jack: (grimly) “Words matter. Those ‘just words’ can kill a film. They can shut down everything we’ve worked for.”

Host: His voice was low, carrying that edge of someone who’s been burned before — by failure, by judgment, by the invisible jury of the world.

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re listening to the wrong audience. Walt Disney once said, ‘We’re not trying to entertain the critics. I’ll take my chances with the public.’ He built an empire on that faith.”

Jack: “Disney was a dreamer with deep pockets. He could afford to take chances.”

Jeeny: “No. He was a dreamer before the pockets were deep. Do you think critics believed in a talking mouse when he drew it on napkins? They called him crazy. Said it was too childish, too optimistic. But the public — the children, the families — they saw something pure. They believed. That’s what mattered.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, streaking the windowpane like lines of forgotten script. Jack turned away from her, the light tracing the worry in his grey eyes.

Jack: “You can afford to believe in purity when you’re not the one holding the payroll. You talk about art like it’s some holy calling. But this —” (he gestures to the sketches) “— this is business. If we fail, people lose jobs.”

Jeeny: “And if we stop creating from the heart, they lose something worse — the reason they ever cared.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling between idealism and truth. Jack rubbed his temples, as if trying to massage the logic back into his head, but her voice had already struck something deeper.

Jack: “So what — we just ignore the critics? Pretend their voices don’t echo in every boardroom? You think art exists in a vacuum?”

Jeeny: “No. But art should breathe before it listens. Critics dissect. The public feels. You can’t build magic from fear of reviews.”

Host: The old projector in the corner whirred softly — the ghosts of their earlier work flickering faintly across the wall, a swirl of colors and laughter. Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes reflecting the moving light.

Jeeny: “Remember the short we made last year — the one about the lost balloon? Critics said it was too sentimental. But do you remember the little girl in the front row, crying? The mother holding her hand? That’s who we make stories for, Jack. Not the ones with pens, but the ones with hearts.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that’s what keeps it alive. Every great creator takes that chance — to be misunderstood.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his fingers tracing the edge of a review. The ink had bled slightly in the humidity, blurring the word “predictable.” He smiled — not with humor, but with exhaustion.

Jack: “You think the public will always care? The world’s changing. Attention spans are dying. People scroll past art now.”

Jeeny: “Then we give them something they can’t scroll past. Something that makes them stop — not because it’s clever, but because it’s true.”

Host: The lamp flickered again, the room dipping briefly into shadow. Jack’s profile softened in the dimness — less the hardened realist, more the man who once believed in color and sound and movement creating something bigger than themselves.

Jack: “You talk like faith can replace funding.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only thing that ever did.”

Host: Her voice was steady, but her eyes shone — not with naivety, but with the unyielding fire of someone who refuses to surrender her soul for approval.

Jack: “You really think the critics don’t matter?”

Jeeny: “They matter. But they shouldn’t define us. Critics tell you what’s wrong. The public reminds you why you started.”

Host: The rain outside softened into a mist, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed midnight. Jack exhaled slowly, his hand brushing against a sketch — a drawing of a boy holding a lantern against the dark. He looked at it for a long time.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to sneak into matinees. The old cartoons, black and white — they made me feel… seen. Like the world could still be kind. I wanted to make people feel that.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then that’s the point. That feeling. That’s the public. Not the crowd — the connection.”

Host: The lamp’s glow caught the faint dust in the air, turning it to drifting gold. For a moment, the room seemed alive again — not with noise, but with possibility.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s simple. Create honestly. Risk mockery. Take your chances with the people who still believe in wonder.”

Host: The silence between them shifted — no longer combative, but contemplative. The storm outside had ended, and in the puddles beyond the window, the streetlights shimmered like tiny screens, replaying every dream they’d ever dared to draw.

Jack: “You know, maybe Disney wasn’t talking about cartoons. Maybe he meant life. Don’t live for the critics — live for the audience that feels your story.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because in the end, the critics write reviews — but the public writes history.”

Host: Jack stood, rolling down his sleeves, his eyes clearer now, like a man remembering his original purpose. He glanced once more at the sketch — the boy with the lantern — then set it upright on the table.

Jack: “All right. Let’s take our chances.”

Jeeny: “With the public?”

Jack: (smiles) “With ourselves.”

Host: She laughed softly — the kind of laughter that sounds like rain finally lifting. The camera of the world pulled back: the studio, the light, the city waking beyond the windows.

The reviews lay forgotten on the desk, ink drying into irrelevance.

Outside, a neon sign flickered — one word glowing steady through the dark: “Dream.”

And for the first time that night, both Jack and Jeeny believed it still meant something.