The Greatest Showman#776 - Harmony

Looking at Renly, eager and eyes shining with excitement, Barry chuckled. "I'm no expert in this field," he admitted, "but in my opinion, your action sequence was well-executed. Even when the glass shattered, it didn't steal the focus. The camera remained locked on you. So, for the upcoming scenes, you're still in charge. I trust your judgment."

It was a statement that said everything and nothing at the same time. Barry's serious demeanor suggested he had given profound advice, yet his words were vague. With that, he stood up, camera slung over his back, and moved toward the set wall. The next scene required not just the primary camera but also a boom camera, making the setup significantly more complex.

"If you were filming 'Bourneville,' how would you shoot Matt Damon?" Renly called out.

Barry didn't turn around. His voice echoed through the studio, "I wouldn't shoot you the same way I shoot Matt. Height makes a big difference." Somewhere across the Atlantic, Matt Damon was unwittingly caught in the crossfire.

"...Thank you?" Renly responded dryly, making Barry chuckle. But Renly remained in place. He had to serve as Jennifer's reference point, ensuring the fight choreography remained precise.

Paul's directing style leaned heavily on a documentary aesthetic. The real spatial positioning of actors, the physicality of the fight sequences, and the organic feel of each shot were all crucial. This meant rehearsals required meticulous attention to detail to prevent disruptions that could compromise the scene's effectiveness.

Jennifer's upcoming stunts—jumps, landings, and positioning—relied on Renly's exact placement. Once the camera rolled, she sprang into action. Agile as a deer leaping through the wild, she descended seamlessly from the helicopter model, her movements fluid and controlled. She landed gracefully, kneeling just three steps away from Renly.

It was an impressive execution.

However, Paul rejected the take.

"Too smooth," he said simply.

Rita had just survived a suicide run with a helicopter—she should be shaken. Jennifer's performance lacked the physical aftermath of the crash: the pain, the shock, the residual disorientation. If it were a filler scene, Paul might have let it slide. But this moment was pivotal. Rita's decision to stay behind, drawing the aliens' attention while Cage infiltrated their stronghold, needed emotional weight.

In Hollywood action films, the male lead often ends up as the lone hero. "Edge of Tomorrow" wasn't an exception, but its script carefully built up to that final battle. Cage's teammates had to sacrifice themselves one by one. Each loss reinforced his emotional and psychological burden. The battle wasn't just about action—it was about tragedy.

So, Paul needed Jennifer to convey Rita's struggle.

The next few takes didn't quite capture it. The second attempt lacked weight, the third had a misstep. Jennifer consulted martial arts coordinator Nick Davis, refining her positioning and landing mechanics. One more rehearsal, and they were ready.

The camera rolled again.

Gun clutched in her right hand, grenades secured in her left, Rita emerged from the helicopter wreckage. She slid down the crumbling wall, her boots finding brief purchase on jagged protrusions. Her left leg faltered slightly—a subtle indication of an injury. She fought to maintain balance, each movement deliberate, like a tightrope walker defying gravity.

For the final descent, she leaped.

The impact was brutal. Her left ankle absorbed the shock, forcing her to one knee. Pain rippled through her body, her breath hitching, a strained groan escaping before she could suppress it.

Three steps away, Cage lay sprawled on the ground, blinking away dizziness. His hands instinctively reached for his weapon, fingers checking the magazine, flipping the safety off. He scanned the surroundings, the noise likely to attract enemies.

Rita exhaled sharply, recovering. Her first instinct? Pull a grenade, thumb securing the tab. A warrior's reflex. Her gaze flickered toward Cage—sharp, assessing, unimpressed.

Her eyebrow arched slightly, conveying everything without words: Already struggling? We haven't even faced the enemy yet.

Cage clenched his jaw. His gaze shifted past Rita to the shattered glass pyramid behind them. His expression hardened. "Too late for regrets."

Their eyes never met, yet Rita's lips curled, part smirk, part challenge, part reluctant admiration.

Without hesitation, Cage rolled to his feet, rifle raised, body tensed in alert. Rita followed, ignoring the pain, falling into step beside him. The alarm blared.

"Enemy attack!"

Cage reacted instantly, gun aimed at the source. Rita mirrored his movements. They had no time to exchange words—only action.

"Cut!"

Paul interrupted the take. Renly and Jennifer looked up, awaiting feedback. Paul raised his hands, both thumbs up. "Perfect! We're switching to close-ups. Same energy!"

Jennifer, still gripping her weapon, straightened. Then, with a mischievous glint, she struck a dramatic pose, gun held aloft, an exaggerated expression on her face. "Like this?"

She looked straight out of a 1960s action flick.

Renly caught on immediately. He pivoted, back to Jennifer, weapon poised. Without exchanging glances, the two assumed an old-school action stance, rotating in slow synchronization, scanning for invisible enemies. Their synchronized movements, exaggerated yet precise, evoked a bygone era of Hollywood thrillers.

Paul groaned, covering his face. "Jesus Christ..." But the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement.

Then, without warning—

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" Renly and Jennifer mimicked gunshots with startling realism.

For a brief second, the crew froze, caught off guard. Then, realizing the barrels hadn't sparked, the entire studio erupted in laughter.

The tension dissolved. The intensity of the previous scene evaporated into absurdity.

Renly coolly blew across the barrel of his fake gun, as if dissipating non-existent smoke. "Targets eliminated."

Jennifer smirked, holstering her imaginary pistol. "Now, shouldn't you be telling me what's going on? Who are you?"

Renly blinked. "Wait, weren't we 'Bonnie and Clyde' just now?"

Jennifer arched an eyebrow, gun raised. "I thought we were 'Mr. & Mrs. Smith'?"

Both paused, stunned. Their supposed synchronized improvisation had veered into completely different references.

Renly chuckled, lowering his weapon. "How about 'Thelma & Louise'?"

Jennifer's jaw dropped. "That ends in tragedy! I was aiming for a rom-com."

The crew burst into laughter. The absurdity of their debate, their straight-faced delivery, made it all the more hilarious.

It was becoming increasingly clear: Renly and Jennifer's comedic chemistry was gold. Someone muttered, "If Renly ever does SNL..."

But the laughter hadn't died down yet. And the fun? Far from over.