Whenever I'm in theatre situations I will go out of my way not to

Host: The rain had stopped but the streets still glistened under the pale neon lights of the city. It was late — the kind of late where voices sound softer, and truths come out easier. Inside a small bar tucked between shuttered bookstores, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, a half-empty bottle of red wine between them. The air smelled faintly of rain and regret.

Jack leaned back, his grey eyes reflecting the streetlight, a slight smirk tracing his lips. Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, her long hair still damp, clinging to her cheeks.

A soft jazz tune played from an old speaker. The mood was slow, reflective — like a confession waiting to happen.

Jeeny: “You know, I read something today by Rebecca Hall. She said, ‘Whenever I'm in theatre situations I will go out of my way not to talk about my father, but in the film world I can be really proud of my family and say, "You know what: my dad's a really, really famous theatre director," because nobody has any idea.’”

Jack: “Ah. The old double world problem — being proud of something only when it’s safe. That’s just human. Everyone hides their truth where it might hurt their ego.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s not ego, Jack. Maybe it’s context — the way society makes us feel about what we come from. In one world, your heritage is a burden, in another it’s your identity.”

Host: A bus passed outside, splashing through a shallow puddle, casting a brief reflection of moving lights across their faces. Jeeny’s eyes caught the light, and for a moment, they glowed with quiet defiance.

Jack: “You’re giving it too much poetry. At the end of the day, it’s just status management. You tell people what makes you look good and keep quiet about what doesn’t. Same reason CEOs talk about their humble beginnings, not their inheritance.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s manipulation? I think it’s survival. Sometimes silence is a form of respect — for yourself or for others. Maybe she wasn’t hiding her father. Maybe she was trying to make her own shadow, instead of standing in his.”

Jack: “But isn’t that the same thing? Avoidance dressed as independence. You can’t escape where you come from — it’s genetic, historical, inevitable. Pretending otherwise is just performance.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s creation. Every artist tries to step out of the inheritance of those before them. It’s what defines their voice. Even Rebecca Hall — she’s saying she found a place where she could be proud, where the baggage didn’t define her. Don’t you see how human that is?”

Host: The bar’s lights flickered as a sudden gust of wind pressed against the window. Outside, leaves scattered across the sidewalk like fleeing memories. Jack poured another glass, the wine catching a deep ruby glow.

Jack: “You call it human. I call it fragile. You’re talking about the need for belonging. To me, that’s just another dependency. People crave recognition so much they distort their truth for it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe, but that’s because recognition shapes our sense of worth. Every child wants to be seen without comparison. Don’t you?”

Jack: “I stopped caring about being seen years ago.”

Jeeny: “No, you just learned to hide it behind sarcasm.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened slightly, a flash of something unreadable passing through his eyes. The jazz had shifted into a slow trumpet solo, lonely, almost melancholic.

Jack: “You think you’ve figured me out? Fine. I’ll play along. You say Hall’s quote is about identity. I say it’s about fear — fear of being reduced to someone else’s legacy. That’s not noble; that’s insecurity.”

Jeeny: “But why is it wrong to be insecure, Jack? Insecurity is the first step toward self-awareness. It’s how we start building something of our own. Look at Francis Ford Coppola and Sofia Coppola — she spent years trying to prove she wasn’t just her father’s daughter. That struggle made her voice sharper, more delicate, her films uniquely hers.”

Jack: “Sure, and half the critics still say she only got there because of him.”

Jeeny: “And yet, she keeps creating. Isn’t that courage?”

Jack: “Or stubbornness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing. You see it as fear, I see it as freedom — the freedom to decide when your story begins.”

Host: The rain began again, soft at first, like a shy apology from the sky. The window fogged with a thin veil, blurring the city into abstract shadows. Jack leaned forward, his voice lower, slower now.

Jack: “You talk about freedom, but isn’t it strange how it’s always framed within approval? She can only be proud in the film world because nobody there knows her father. That’s not real pride — that’s conditional acceptance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe real pride doesn’t need to be universal. Sometimes you can only be proud in the spaces that let you breathe. Think about people who move to new countries just to feel visible again. Pride needs oxygen.”

Jack: “Or amnesia. You move somewhere new, you change your name, your story, your tone — and suddenly you’re free? That’s not pride, Jeeny, that’s erasure.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s reinvention. You think the past is a prison; I think it’s a foundation. Some people build on it. Others break it apart to make something new.”

Host: The tension between them hung like a string pulled too tight. The bar had emptied, leaving only their voices, the rain, and the soft hum of electric light.

Jeeny: “You ever wish you could be proud of something without explanation?”

Jack: “I wish I could be indifferent. Pride’s just a mirror turned toward others.”

Jeeny: “That’s your problem. You think every feeling must be justified. But pride isn’t logic, Jack. It’s a pulse.”

Jack: “A pulse that gets people killed. Nations have gone to war over pride. Families have fallen apart because someone couldn’t admit they were standing in borrowed light.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not pride that destroys — it’s shame. That’s what Rebecca Hall was talking about. In one world, she feels shame for her inheritance, in another she feels freedom. The worlds define the emotion, not the person.”

Jack: “So we’re just actors switching masks depending on the stage?”

Jeeny: “Aren’t we all? You, sitting here pretending you don’t care, when you do. Me, pretending I’m not hurt by how easily people erase what they didn’t earn. We’re all trying to find a stage that doesn’t laugh at us.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavier than any argument. The rain outside had turned into a steady drum, like time itself refusing to stop. Jack’s hand brushed the table, almost unconsciously, toward Jeeny’s.

Jack: “You think everyone deserves that kind of stage?”

Jeeny: “I think everyone deserves to be more than someone’s echo.”

Jack: “Even if that means cutting off the voice that made them?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The light from the street flickered once more, reflecting off the bottle, the glasses, the small pools of wine left behind.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe hiding the truth isn’t always dishonesty. Sometimes it’s self-preservation.”

Jeeny: “And maybe revealing it isn’t always boasting. Sometimes it’s healing.”

Jack: “So what do we do with that? Hide or confess?”

Jeeny: “We learn when to do both. Pride isn’t about where you come from — it’s about knowing when to speak and when to listen.”

Host: The music faded to a whisper. Outside, the city breathed, its lights flickering like tired stars. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, two figures framed against a window of rain and reflection.

The bottle was empty now. The clock ticked softly, marking an hour that neither wanted to end.

Jack finally smiled, faint and almost invisible.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe the real theatre isn’t out there. Maybe it’s right here — where we decide which truths to perform.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s make it a good performance.”

Host: And with that, the camera would pull back — past the fogged glass, past the neon haze, past the city pulsing in quiet rain — until all that remained were two small silhouettes, holding their fragile truths in the tender light of being understood.