The Greatest Showman #762 – Old Man Friendship

The high-pitched voices at the bar were so immersed in their heated debate that they completely missed Renly's entrance. A group of young people on the right side were arguing passionately.

"...No, no, no! Haven't you noticed? 'Cleopatra,' 'Believe It,' 'Go Ahead'—these songs capture the very essence of rock and roll!"

"So, you think he could be a second Bob Dylan? I'll give you that he's great, but there's only one Bob!"

"...But there's only one Renly Hall in the world!"

The argument was so intense that no one even noticed the tall figure who had just passed by, the very person they were discussing. Renly slightly lowered his chin, retreating into the shadows, and pushed open the door to the Pioneer Village Bar. The bustling atmosphere of the party-like scene hit him immediately—the warmth and noise rushing toward him. The heat blurred his vision, making it hard to focus on anything specific.

Before he could orient himself and search for any familiar faces, an old man, short in stature with white hair, approached him. The man stopped suddenly, taking a few steps back, and stood directly in front of Renly. His cloudy eyes peered out from under the dim light, studying him with an expression that was part critical, part playful. Without warning, he spoke. "You're an interesting guy."

Renly assumed the old man was just another passerby until the words caught his attention. When he looked up, he saw the familiar black-rimmed glasses and recognized him immediately—Woody Allen. The little old man remained expressionless, though a slight flush on his cheeks softened his usual stern look. Woody didn't seem to care about Renly's confusion, instead adding, "I mean, you're more interesting than I thought."

"The 'Match Point' kind of interesting, or the 'Midnight in Paris' type of interesting?" Renly teased with a faint smile in his eyes.

"Scarlett-Johansson-style interesting," Woody replied meaningfully, adjusting his glasses.

Woody had long publicly stated that Scarlett Johansson was his "muse"—a source of creative inspiration. She had starred in several of his films, including Match Point, Scoop, and Midnight in Paris.

Renly raised his chin slightly, his eyes twinkling with playful curiosity. "So you're saying you drew inspiration from me? Perhaps next you'll create a script with me as the central character?"

Woody chuckled—a rare sight, revealing his amusement. This was the first time Renly had seen Woody express such warmth. Woody seemed genuinely happy tonight, exuding a lightness that Renly could sense.

"Don't get too greedy, young man," Woody replied with a sharp glint in his eye. "My muse has always been a woman, and always will be. Men are just... not helpful for creative inspiration." He added a slight sneer. "Women. Only women."

Woody repeated this statement twice, emphasizing his point. Renly couldn't help but laugh. "What about Midnight in Paris?"

"If you've seen the film, you'd understand that Owen Wilson's character is meant to represent me. The true inspiration is Paris, and Marion Cotillard." Woody explained patiently—something Renly would never have expected, especially given Woody's usual reluctance to explain his work. "But I'll admit, you're an interesting guy."

For the third time, Woody had repeated that phrase.

Renly responded with a teasing smile. "Am I so boring that you can't come up with better adjectives? Or is your brain just running on a loop tonight?"

Woody didn't seem offended. Instead, he nodded approvingly, as though he were satisfied with Renly's retort. "I could use that line in a script for Midnight in Paris... but it's a pity."

He didn't finish his thought, but the implication was clear: the timing had passed, and Renly had missed the chance to collaborate on a project that had already been released earlier that year at Cannes.

Renly shrugged casually. "If it was missed, then it wasn't meant to be. Nothing to regret." He continued, his tone playful yet probing, "Have I hit the right tone now? Is this the perfect response?"

With a lighthearted, self-deprecating smile, Renly didn't flatter Woody—he simply responded in kind, challenging the assumption that he should court Woody's favor like other actors did. For Renly, the act of standing out often meant not indulging in superficial pleasantries, especially in a place like Los Angeles, a city filled with empty, flashy admiration.

Woody smirked, "You're not the first, and you certainly won't be the last." The sharp-witted director responded with equal sarcasm, "But we should probably end this conversation. You're starting to sound cheesy, and that's never a good sign." Woody then walked away, shaking his head with mock disappointment.

Just as Woody reached the door, he seemed to remember something and paused. "Was the Don Quixote album your idea? I know it wasn't George Slender's, nor Stanley Charlesson's."

"George's idea, my creation," Renly answered, straightforward but without pride or false humility.

Woody paused, letting the information settle. Then he sighed thoughtfully, "God, what a wonderful thing it would have been if you'd been born in the 1960s." With a final pat on Renly's arm, he walked out, hands behind his back, his shuffle signifying his departure.

Renly stood still, contemplating Woody's words. He could sense the nostalgia in Woody's sighs—the regret and unspoken admiration behind his cryptic remarks. All along, Renly had known that Woody was a stubborn, proud man, one of Hollywood's rare intellectuals, but he never expected that the Don Quixote album would strike a chord with him.

Despite having only met Woody three times and never having worked together, Renly felt a strange sense of camaraderie, like a silent understanding. He couldn't help but compare the feeling to his friendships with George and Stanley.

Chuckling to himself, Renly dismissed the thought—perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

He made his way through the crowd and approached the bar, spotting Neil, who was busy as usual. With a wide smile on his face, Neil was chatting with guests while keeping up with his work effortlessly. Renly considered rolling up his sleeves and offering to help—but before he could decide, a graceful girl approached.

She laid her arms on the bar, shouting loudly, "Bartender! Bartender!" Her short, vibrant green hair and the tattoo on her left arm caught Renly's attention. With striking features and a strong, confident demeanor, she turned toward him, tilting her chin. "Hey, make some space, will you? Oh, wait—you're Renly, aren't you? The star of tonight's party?"

Once she recognized him, she smiled playfully. "What can I say? You look a little different from the photos, but you still fit the image I had in mind." She took a drag from her cigarette, then continued. "Man, I honestly don't like your album. No one can outdo Bob Dylan in folk music. Your lyrics still need work. But, I admire your courage! That's enough to earn my respect! Let me buy you a drink."

Renly couldn't help but smile at her bluntness. "My honor," he said, his amusement more at her boldness than the praise itself. She had a youthful charm he couldn't ignore—probably not of legal drinking age.

The girl raised an eyebrow, smirking. "I love that simplicity! So much better than those guys who think they have to buy women drinks. What's the point of that?" She turned to Neil and shouted again, "Seven bottles of Heineken! Hurry up!"

Neil, noticing Renly, brightened immediately. "Jesus Christ, you're here tonight! Why didn't you let me know earlier? Stan-Leigh said you might not make it this time." Without waiting for Renly to respond, Neil called out to the bar. "Guys! Let's give a warm welcome to this week's miracle worker—Renly Hall!"

The crowd erupted in cheers, chanting his name: Renly! Renly! Renly!