When you're the showrunner, you're the person that's in control

Host: The studio lights had dimmed to a low gold, their buzz fading beneath the soft hum of a camera cooling fan. The set was almost empty now — scattered coffee cups, a forgotten script curling under the heat, and the faint smell of makeup and metal still hanging in the air. Outside, the sky bruised purple over Los Angeles, the sun sinking behind billboards of faces pretending to be other people.

Jack stood near the director’s chair, a silhouette of stillness amid the mess of ambition. His grey eyes were thoughtful, distant — a man used to pulling strings, now studying the puppets they moved. Jeeny entered from the shadows, a stack of storyboards pressed to her chest, her expression both weary and electric — like someone who had just witnessed creation and exhaustion in equal measure.

Jeeny: “Julie Plec once said, ‘When you're the showrunner, you're the person that's in control of most of the details, and to be able to take all that and then to step right behind the camera and to have a direct line of communication with the crew and with the actors — to not be delivering that through another person — is pretty freeing and extremely stimulating.’ Don’t you love that? The way she talks about control as if it’s not power, but connection.”

Jack: (Half-smiling.) “You hear connection. I hear chaos. That quote sounds like the confession of someone who’s learned to romanticize exhaustion. ‘Control of most of the details’ — that’s just another word for being buried alive under responsibility.”

Host: A light bulb flickered above them, a pulse of yellow like a heartbeat. Jeeny set her storyboards on the table, her hands still trembling from adrenaline.

Jeeny: “But that’s the beauty of it, Jack. Creation is chaos. To be the showrunner — to be the one who knows every line, every look, every heartbeat of the story — it’s not just control, it’s communion. Plec was talking about art as a conversation, not a dictatorship.”

Jack: “A conversation? Maybe. But when you’re the one holding the megaphone, it’s not really a dialogue, is it? Let’s not pretend the showrunner is some spiritual conductor of human symphonies. They’re the architect of illusion — and the crew just builds what they’re told.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. The best showrunners listen. Think of Julie Plec on The Vampire Diaries or The Originals. Her power wasn’t in commanding people — it was in translating emotion into collaboration. That’s what she meant by a ‘direct line of communication.’ She wasn’t talking about authority — she was talking about authenticity.”

Jack: (Lighting a cigarette, voice low.) “You really believe art survives collaboration? Look around, Jeeny. Every masterpiece is built on someone’s singular obsession. Kubrick. Hitchcock. Plec herself — you think those visions came from committee meetings?”

Host: The smoke rose in delicate spirals, catching the light like phantom film reels turning in slow motion. The camera track glinted faintly beneath the dust, a metallic echo of every story ever told.

Jeeny: “But obsession alone doesn’t make magic, Jack. It isolates it. A showrunner’s gift isn’t their control — it’s their ability to translate obsession into connection. That’s what Plec means when she says it’s freeing. The freedom isn’t in control; it’s in communication.”

Jack: “Communication is overrated. You want freedom? That comes from autonomy. From not needing a hundred people to execute what you can already see in your head.”

Jeeny: “And yet — every director needs actors. Every writer needs a reader. Every leader, a team. You can’t create meaning in a vacuum. The very act of filmmaking — of storytelling — demands trust.”

Jack: (Snorts softly.) “Trust. That’s the word people use when they’ve run out of leverage.”

Host: A silence settled, thick and cinematic. The set lights hummed softly, their faint glow outlining both of them — two figures in the wreckage of imagination. Jeeny’s eyes caught the glimmer of something vulnerable behind Jack’s cynicism.

Jeeny: “You think control is safety. That if you hold everything together, nothing can fall apart. But maybe control is just fear with better lighting.”

Jack: (Pauses, cigarette frozen halfway to his lips.) “Fear of what?”

Jeeny: “Fear of silence. Fear that if you let someone else speak, the story won’t sound like yours anymore.”

Host: The air between them shifted — tension thick as film stock stretched too tight. Jack exhaled slowly, his smoke curling toward the rafters like an unspoken confession.

Jack: “I’ve seen what happens when you hand over too much power. The vision dilutes. The message fades. You end up with something safe — something designed by committee. I’ve watched great stories become mediocrity the second too many voices got involved.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen stories come alive the moment one person dared to listen. When a director looked an actor in the eyes and said, ‘What do you think?’ That’s the difference between manipulation and collaboration.”

Jack: “Collaboration is romantic until you’re the one cleaning up the mess. When Plec talks about being in control of details, she’s talking about survival. The only reason she could be creative was because she held the chaos by its throat.”

Jeeny: “You think holding chaos is strength. But Plec said the opposite — that stepping behind the camera, directly among her crew, freed her. Control became connection. The act of directing wasn’t about domination — it was about trusting her creation to breathe.”

Host: The studio clock ticked in the background, each second a pulse of unspoken truth. Jack leaned against the equipment rack, his shadow long and jagged across the floor. Jeeny stood, her eyes bright with conviction, a kind of quiet rebellion glowing beneath her calm.

Jeeny: “You remember when Chaplin said he directed because he couldn’t trust anyone else to express what he felt? Maybe Plec found the opposite truth — that you only discover the soul of your story when you stop guarding it.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic, Jeeny. But in reality? The minute you stop guarding the story, it starts to rot.”

Jeeny: “No. It evolves.”

Jack: (Eyes narrowing.) “You call compromise evolution?”

Jeeny: “I call it humility.”

Host: The tension broke like glass underfoot. Jack crushed his cigarette, the sound small but final. His jaw worked, his eyes distant, the flicker of a younger version of himself moving behind them — a man who once believed in collaboration before betrayal turned it to ash.

Jack: (Quietly.) “I used to think that, you know. That art was about dialogue. About shared meaning. Then I watched people twist what I made into something I didn’t recognize. That’s when I decided — control is the only way to stay honest.”

Jeeny: (Softly, stepping closer.) “Or maybe honesty lives in the risk. Maybe every real artist has to watch their creation walk away, become something unexpected — something they can’t predict. Maybe that’s the only proof it’s alive.”

Host: The soundstage seemed to breathe — the metal, the wood, the empty seats — all listening, waiting. The light fell across their faces, two contrasting halves of a single frame — skepticism and faith, logic and feeling.

Jack: (Voice low, resigned.) “You always make surrender sound like art.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Host: A long silence. Then Jack’s lips curved — a rare, reluctant smile.

Jack: “Maybe Plec’s right. Maybe being behind the camera is freeing — not because you’re in control, but because you finally realize you never really were.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The art of leading is learning to let go — without disappearing.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, leaving only the glow of the monitor, flickering with a still shot — two blurred figures facing each other, caught mid-conversation.

Jeeny looked at the image and whispered, almost to herself: “And maybe that’s what all of this is — the story of control learning to love chaos.”

Jack: (Quietly.) “And chaos learning to listen.”

Host: The camera light blinked once, then faded to black. Outside, the city buzzed on — endless, alive, a million stories waiting to be told.

In the dark, their last words lingered — not as command or surrender, but as something freer, more human:

that art, like life, is only real when the voice behind it dares to become part of the echo.