The Greatest Showman#798 - loud
One look—just one look—was enough to send shivers down the spine, to ignite the soul with uncontainable fervor.
"Red, the blood of angry men!" Enjolras gritted his teeth, his fists tightening as his energy surged. He turned sharply, now facing the audience head-on, his voice unwavering. He took a single step forward, small yet resolute, heavy yet powerful. "Black, the dark of ages past!"
The music swelled, emotions rippling through the theater like a wildfire. The lyrics, raw and commanding, pulsed through the air with an almost tangible force, setting hearts ablaze. The audience, seated in silence, felt their breath catch. A surge, unstoppable and electrifying, built within their chests, ready to break free.
In the wake of societal collapse, under the crushing weight of injustice, no one remained untouched. The world itself trembled. How could a nation stand without governance? How could people survive without dignity? For freedom, for dreams, for a future worth fighting for—they had no choice but to rise. To fight. To unite.
On that small stage, Enjolras stood, a towering presence, his stance commanding as though he alone upheld the sky. Beside him, Marius seemed almost inconsequential, a mere figure amid the grandeur. Though only two men stood before the audience, it felt as if an entire revolution loomed behind them, the unseen masses heeding the call of history, of fate.
The stage—so confined, yet so vast.
With his right fist clenched so tightly his muscles trembled, Enjolras turned once more. Two powerful strides carried him across the stage before he leaped onto a chair, then onto the table. He planted his left foot firmly, his right foot pressing against the wood, his fist still raised high—a symbol, a banner, a beacon.
"Red! The world about to dawn!" he roared.
In that moment, he was ablaze, his very being alight with an unyielding fire. The force of his conviction radiated outward, scorching through the silence. The tension snapped—one person in the audience stood, then another, then another, until a wave of people surged to their feet. Right fists raised, voices rising in unison, they roared back:
"Black! The night that ends at last!"
The melody soared, a crescendo of passion, a symphony of defiance. Enjolras leaned forward, his body folding like a mountain crumbling, yet his raised fist never wavered. It stood tall, unrelenting, a flag planted in the ruins of oppression. And behind that fist, he was no longer alone—he was joined by the starving, the broken, the beaten-down. The destitute children, the battered women, the forgotten men. The nameless, faceless many who had been cast aside.
And yet, there he was—
A man born into nobility, yet covered in the dust of the streets. A man who could have lived in comfort, yet chose to fight. A man who could have turned away, yet stood unshaken. His steps, staggering yet firm, carried him forward. The pounding of his boots echoed across the stage, an unyielding drumbeat. And then, with the force of a falcon diving through the sky, his voice sliced through the air, leaving nothing but raw power in its wake.
The audience in the front rows sat frozen, breathless, gripped by the illusion that Enjolras would hurl himself into martyrdom right then and there.
The conviction in his voice, the fire in his eyes—it was real. It was alive.
And then—
A sudden halt. His right foot landed at the very edge of the stage, stopping just before the abyss. His raised fist lingered, then arched through the air before pressing firmly against his chest.
Silence. The music cut. The moment hung suspended in time.
The aria had ended. Enjolras' performance had ended.
Thunderous applause erupted, instinctive, undeniable. The actors in the back had risen to their feet, their hands coming together in unspoken reverence. The entire theater, spellbound, surrendered to admiration. They did not applaud out of obligation or politeness—they applauded because they had no choice. The sheer force of what they had witnessed left them no alternative.
This was the essence of theater. No embellishments, no tricks—just raw, unfiltered power. Absolute mastery demanded nothing less than absolute respect. Every actor on that stage knew it better than anyone: there were no shortcuts in this craft. Every moment in the spotlight was built upon years of tireless dedication. The stage did not lie.
Cameron had not anticipated this. A slow smile of intrigue spread across his face. He turned to Tom, whose eyes shone with amazement. They exchanged knowing glances, then joined in the applause. One by one, the crew followed suit, until not a single person in the theater remained silent.
Cameron was forced to acknowledge the undeniable truth—
This performance had far exceeded all expectations.
The "Red and Black" aria was not the most technically demanding number in Les Misérables, but it was pivotal. A battle of ideals, a clash of beliefs. Marius and Enjolras, locked in opposition, each unyielding. By the end, Marius would sway Enjolras ever so slightly, the tides of revolution sweeping all resistance aside.
This aria was not just a song—it was a test.
And tonight, both Eddie and Renly had proven themselves. Eddie's performance was full of conviction, his portrayal of Marius brimming with youthful passion. But his delivery, while strong, was almost too forceful, leaving little room for nuance. His vibrato, his lingering notes—they were beautiful, yet relentless, never allowing a breath between emotions.
But Renly? Renly had been on a different plane entirely.
Every glance, every movement, every note was calculated yet natural, powerful yet effortless. He commanded not just the melody but the very space around him, molding the stage to his will. He was not just performing—he was Enjolras. His belief was unwavering, his fervor palpable, his purpose absolute. And the audience had felt it.
By the final line, they were no longer mere spectators. They had been swept into the revolution itself.
Cameron let out a quiet breath, his mind racing. He had seen Renly's audition video, had known the young actor was talented. But this—this was something else entirely.
"God," he thought, barely able to suppress his awe. "How did he endure doing anything else before this?"
This was where Renly belonged. Here, under the lights, in front of an audience. Hollywood films were mere child's play compared to this.
And yet, a single thought nagged at him.
Renly was brilliant—too brilliant. Too grand for the role of Enjolras. How could such a performance be contained within the confines of a supporting role? If Enjolras was not the lead, then what was?
Could they still reconsider? Was it too late?
Could they dare to imagine Renly as Jean Valjean?