When I directed the 'Ring' cycle at the Metropolitan Opera in New

Host: The theatre stood silent now — a cathedral of shadows and dust-speckled light. The rows of red velvet seats stretched endlessly into darkness, like echoes of an audience that had long since gone home. A single spotlight burned center stage, illuminating the faint trace of footprints on the wooden floorboards, ghosts of performances past.

Outside, the city hummed — restless, distracted, neon-drenched — but inside, only stillness reigned.

Jack stood on the stage, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, looking out over the empty seats as though addressing the silence itself. Jeeny sat on the edge of the orchestra pit, her legs dangling, a script resting on her lap, the faint hum of her breathing the only living rhythm left in the room.

Jeeny: “Robert Lepage said, ‘When I directed the “Ring” cycle at the Metropolitan Opera, people were texting all through the show. But theatre isn’t a communication device; it’s a communion.’”

Jack: (half-laughing) “Communion. That’s poetic. But these days, people don’t come to commune. They come to document. To prove they were here.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what kills it. Theatre dies when you stop being present. It’s not meant to be captured — it’s meant to be felt.”

Jack: “You sound like a romantic clinging to the ruins of an ancient ritual. Maybe Lepage should accept that people’s faith has shifted — their gods now glow from screens.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t shift, Jack. Attention does. And attention is the currency of connection.”

Host: Jack stepped forward, his shoes clicking softly on the stage floor, a rhythm echoing like a metronome against the walls. The light followed him, throwing his tall frame into long shadows that stretched over the orchestra seats.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny — he calls it ‘communion,’ but that word’s too heavy for what theatre’s become. Look around — people can’t even sit through five minutes of silence without reaching for validation.”

Jeeny: “That’s not theatre’s fault. That’s ours. We’ve forgotten how to listen.”

Jack: “No, we’ve evolved. Theatre used to be the only way to experience stories together. Now stories live everywhere — in films, games, even TikTok clips. Why cling to something slower?”

Jeeny: “Because slowness is where truth breathes. Theatre isn’t just storytelling — it’s sacred confrontation. A shared breath between souls. You can’t text your way through that.”

Jack: “Shared breath? You make it sound religious.”

Jeeny: “It is. Communion always was.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed, flickered, and then steadied again. Jeeny’s eyes caught the light, glowing with conviction, while Jack’s reflected it with skepticism — fire against ice.

Jack: “You think an audience sitting in silence is holy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s the one moment in modern life when people agree to listen. When the noise stops, something eternal opens.”

Jack: “And what if the eternal bores them? What if they’re texting because the show’s not worth their silence?”

Jeeny: “Then they’ve forgotten what silence can teach them.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but unyielding. The theatre itself seemed to listen, the wooden beams creaking in quiet approval.

Jack: “You ever think maybe theatre’s just nostalgia? A dying ritual for people who miss believing in something bigger than themselves?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the last place where they still can.”

Jack: “You’re saying this dusty stage can compete with the infinite universe in a phone?”

Jeeny: “Not compete — correct. The screen divides. The stage unites.”

Jack: “Unites who? A room full of strangers pretending to care?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the miracle. We pretend — and somehow, it becomes real.”

Host: A shaft of light broke through the rafters, illuminating the dust swirling in the air — particles of past laughter, forgotten tears, echoes of applause. Jeeny stood, stepping onto the stage beside him, her voice steady, her eyes burning with that old fire artists carry when defending their faith.

Jeeny: “Theatre is communion because it demands presence. You have to be here — body, breath, heart. You can’t scroll your way through Hamlet. You can’t like Medea’s tragedy with an emoji.”

Jack: “But you can feel her rage through a screen.”

Jeeny: “No, you can observe it. That’s not the same thing.”

Jack: “You think feeling requires proximity?”

Jeeny: “No — vulnerability. And theatre is vulnerability rehearsed into art.”

Host: Jack turned away, pacing the edge of the stage, his hands gesturing through the light like a man searching for proof.

Jack: “You know what I see when I look at this place? A temple for ghosts. Actors chasing applause, audiences chasing meaning, both pretending it matters.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you came here. Tonight. Why?”

Jack: (pauses) “Because… I wanted to remember what it felt like. When art still meant something.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s communion, Jack. You remembered.”

Host: The silence returned, but now it felt alive — not empty, but electric. The spotlight hummed, the air thick with history, and for the briefest moment, it was as if the ghosts of every actor, every audience, every whispered line were present with them again.

Jeeny: “You see, Lepage wasn’t just lamenting distraction — he was mourning the loss of reverence. Theatre isn’t about being entertained. It’s about being encountered.”

Jack: “By what?”

Jeeny: “By truth. By yourself. By the fragile humanity we forget to notice.”

Jack: “You think people want that anymore?”

Jeeny: “Deep down, yes. Everyone wants to belong to something that doesn’t fit in a notification.”

Host: A soft creak echoed from the balcony — the kind of sound only old theatres make, like the past exhaling. Jack looked up, eyes following the sound, and for a moment, the darkened seats seemed to shimmer — as if filled by invisible witnesses, waiting for the curtain to rise again.

Jack: “You ever think theatre’s just grief disguised as beauty?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But grief, when shared, becomes communion too.”

Jack: “So the audience is the congregation.”

Jeeny: “And the actor is the prayer.”

Jack: “And what’s the play?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness.”

Host: Jack stopped moving, his shoulders lowered, the fight leaving him, replaced by something quieter — maybe humility, maybe awe. The spotlight dimmed, but didn’t fade; it softened, as if the theatre itself approved of the peace between them.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the world’s not tired of theatre. Maybe it’s just forgotten how to sit still long enough to find itself in it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we keep performing — to remind it.”

Jack: “And if no one listens?”

Jeeny: “Then we perform for the silence.”

Host: The camera pulls back, rising above the stage, past the empty seats, into the rafters, where light and shadow merge into something eternal. Jack and Jeeny stand beneath it — two figures, small but steadfast, illuminated by the faint glow of faith reborn.

Outside, the city blazes with screens, but inside, a different kind of light endures — fragile, human, unrecorded.

Host (softly): “Theatre isn’t a communication device… it’s communion. It’s where strangers breathe together and remember they’re not alone.”

And as the lights finally fade, the stage — once empty — now feels full again.
Full of echoes, of souls,
and of that rarest kind of silence —
the kind that listens back.