The Greatest Showman#677 - protagonist temperament
Surprisingly, Renly didn't dominate the conversation, didn't rush to ingratiate himself, and didn't exude an overeager urgency to impress. He seemed genuinely present, engaging in casual discussions about the past two days' waves at Venice Beach or the differences between various brands and years of rum. Yet, even within these seemingly random topics, Jeff found himself gaining insights, learning facts he had never encountered before.
Jeff had spent years in Hollywood, solidifying his influence as a key figure at Warner Bros. He prided himself on his knowledge and experience. Yet, conversing with Renly felt different—engaging and effortless. In just ten minutes, Jeff felt an unexpected intimacy forming. Beneath Renly's striking features lay an undeniable depth—his profound knowledge, calm temperament, and effortless charm subtly commanded attention and credibility.
Hollywood was filled with actors—more than 600,000 were registered with the Actors Guild alone, not to mention unregistered amateurs, college students, Broadway hopefuls, and countless others chasing the dream. But not everyone could be a protagonist, especially in commercial films.
To lead a blockbuster, an actor needed more than just talent. Image mattered—not just in terms of looks, but an elusive presence that made audiences gravitate toward them. This aura, often referred to as "the protagonist's charisma" or "the leading man effect," was difficult to define but undeniably real.
When casting for a commercial film, the process wasn't just about acting ability. Directors and producers needed to see an actor stand before the camera in their most natural, unperformed state and determine if they possessed that magnetic pull—whether they could hold an audience's attention, appeal to a specific demographic, or embody the essence of the film's hero.
Hollywood's century-old evolution in commercial filmmaking had fine-tuned this selection process. On the one hand, major studios had mastered the art of identifying marketable stars. On the other, their rigid standards often led to a monotonous aesthetic—favoring a narrow archetype that dominated the industry. This was why so many blockbuster leads seemed interchangeable, giving rise to a generation of visually appealing but ultimately replaceable idols.
Yet, the notion that "some people are born to be protagonists" remained an undeniable Hollywood truth.
Consider "Thor"—Tom Hiddleston was passed over for the titular role because casting directors felt he lacked the superhero aura. Meanwhile, Ryan Reynolds, with his naturally charismatic presence, found himself on the shortlist for nearly every superhero franchise, from "Deadpool" to "Green Lantern," and even "Superman: Man of Steel." Similarly, John Krasinski nearly became Captain America, Jake Gyllenhaal was considered for Spider-Man and Batman, and Taylor Kitsch landed major roles in "Battleship" and "John Carter"—all reflections of the same underlying industry principle.
Securing a lead role in a commercial blockbuster was no easy feat. Being chosen for a superhero franchise was even harder. Just look at Nicolas Cage's ill-fated "Superman" project for an example of Hollywood's high-stakes risk-taking.
This was why blockbuster auditions were notoriously rigorous—actors underwent multiple rounds, testing not just their performance but their innate screen presence, their chemistry with co-stars, and their ability to command a film's narrative weight. For example, in "Cinderella," the romantic connection between the two leads was a crucial factor in casting decisions.
Renly's talent in independent cinema was undisputed, and his performance in "Fast & Furious 5" had already proven his commercial appeal. But leading a high-budget sci-fi blockbuster was another challenge entirely. Charisma, skill, and audience reach weren't enough to guarantee success—just ask George Clooney after "Batman & Robin."
Before today, Renly had already cleared several audition rounds. Jeff had personally reviewed the footage and listened to the feedback—most of it positive but with some reservations. If Jeff had to choose, he still leaned toward Brad as the lead for "Edge of Tomorrow."
The debate between casting established stars versus rising newcomers was an ongoing one in Hollywood. Jeff had skimmed the script—its style resembled "Blade Runner" or "Source Code" in terms of box office potential rather than artistic approach. To maximize returns, a seasoned A-lister like Brad seemed like the safer bet.
Moreover, "Edge of Tomorrow" had high production demands—extensive battlefield sequences, advanced visual effects, and complex mechanical designs. The estimated budget sat at $100 million, but Jeff doubted it would be enough. If Brad starred, securing a $150 million budget would be feasible. With Renly? It might even decrease.
However, Jeff had a reputation for championing fresh talent. He had backed rising stars before—Ben Affleck, Christopher Nolan. He trusted his instincts. And so, he remained open to Renly's potential.
Tonight's party was a test—a real-world audition of sorts.
Jeff had intended to observe Renly's ability to navigate the social scene, to gauge his adaptability and charisma. What he hadn't anticipated was Renly's direct collision with Brad. It wasn't a fiery clash, but the subtle tension was undeniable—enough to keep Jeff intrigued. There was something about Renly, something that neither Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, nor Harrison Ford possessed. An intangible but compelling quality.
Now, Jeff was genuinely curious—what would Renly bring to a sci-fi blockbuster like "Edge of Tomorrow"? Could he truly carry a film of this magnitude?
"Wow, after drinking whiskey for so long, I never knew there were so many hidden secrets in it." Jeff left the bar, settling onto a nearby sofa.
Without needing an invitation, Renly took the seat diagonally across. "Tasting and drinking are two different things. 'Tasting' focuses on nuance, while 'drinking' is just about consumption. But not everyone has the patience to truly appreciate whiskey. Most are simply looking for alcohol's numbing effect, not the artistry behind it."
Jeff chuckled. He liked the way Renly spoke—confident yet composed, intelligent yet not arrogant, always laced with subtle humor or self-awareness. Conversations with him were refreshingly engaging.
"So, is that why you want to do a commercial film?" Jeff shifted the topic smoothly. "To taste the charm of popcorn?"
Renly didn't answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and smiled. For a moment, the air between them seemed to still. Jeff, caught off guard, raised a questioning eyebrow. Then Renly spoke.
"Oh, that was a question? I thought it was a joke."
Jeff blinked, then let out a laugh. Renly had a way of controlling the rhythm of a conversation, even with industry heavyweights.
"There are countless ways to answer that question," Renly continued. "I assume you don't want a standard press conference response." He shrugged. "The truth is, acting lets me experience different lives, even different worlds. Honestly? I've always fantasized about playing a vampire."
Jeff's eyes widened in amusement. "Seriously?"
"Not the 'Twilight' kind," Renly smirked. "More like 'Interview with the Vampire.' The concept of time losing meaning—what does eternity do to a person?"
Jeff considered that for a moment.
"Besides movies, where else could I explore the psychological toll of infinite reincarnation?" Renly continued. "That's what fascinates me about 'Edge of Tomorrow.' It's more than just a popcorn flick—it's a study of transformation."
Jeff leaned back, intrigued. "Actually, I'm more curious about your press conference-style answer now."