The Greatest Showman - Chapter 823 - Detached Release

Sitting in the theater seat, Marc Lacante kept fidgeting. The excitement radiating from him made it impossible to sit still.

Katarina Koffler, seated to his right, slapped his arm sharply and hissed between clenched teeth, "Mark, quiet down, or we'll be kicked out! You're disturbing the other audience members." Her German accent, pronounced and tight, only added to the urgency in her tone.

Mark didn't seem to notice. He shifted in his seat, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Isn't this incredible? We're about to watch a Renly Hall movie! And we just met him! We talked to Renly Hall last night!"

Katarina, although equally thrilled, tried to regain some composure. "Yes, I know. But a movie is a movie, and an actor is an actor. We have to remain objective when we judge the film..." She blushed, remembering her earlier excitement on the red carpet.

Thankfully, Mark and Katarina weren't alone in their enthusiasm. Across the theater, a low hum of energy filled the air, anticipation building, as the crowd buzzed with excitement, ready to erupt at any moment. Slowly, the lights began to dim, the noise quieting as the film was about to begin.

Before Mark could settle, the screen flickered, and a close-up of Renly Hall's face appeared. It was just the five-second producer title, no movie title, no cast list—nothing but a simple cut into the theme.

Mark's excitement surged again, so much so that he nearly jumped out of his seat. But then his eyes locked on the screen, and his focus intensified.

The camera zoomed in on Renly's face: messy, unkempt hair, a scruffy face bathed in warm, amber lighting, his eyes half-lidded, lost in thought. His expression was blank, but beneath it, confusion and exhaustion lingered in the furrows of his brow. The shot was intimate—every detail of his face magnified, every emotion conveyed without a single word. The performance had already begun.

Renly's right hand held a pencil, gently rubbing his temple, the light casting soft shadows over his face, highlighting the fine lines and the wear of time. His eyes, dark brown, looked up slowly, the slight spark of thought flickering in them. His voice, husky and fatigued, broke the silence:

"Don't let other people in." His tone was measured, though weighed down by an unseen burden. "I'm more inclined to let these people finish this thing now. Everyone can disperse. Can you do that? Don't crowd here. Thank you."

A voice replied, "We can let the others at the door leave."

"Lock the door," Renly said, his gaze drifting for a moment, almost absentminded, before he regained focus. "It's fine to lock. Thank you." He paused, lowering his eyes, as if retreating into his thoughts again. The camera stayed focused on his face, leaving his thoughts to spill out through his eyes.

Then, as the quiet of the scene deepened, a soft, melancholic piano melody began to play, filling the space with an emotional weight that seemed to hang in the air.

Mark was silent, breathless.

His body, previously restless, now settled back into the seat. His mind, too, entered the world crafted by Renly—his face and voice constructing a reality behind the screen that he could feel as if it were his own.

The scene shifted, and a chalk drawing appeared on the screen: a towering tree whose leaves turned into a book, the words "I have never felt so deeply, with Souls so far apart, and my existence so real - Albert Camus" written in delicate, flowing script.

For the European audience, it was a familiar reference—philosophy, literature, history—something they had lived with throughout their education. In that instant, the meaning behind the film's title, Transcendence, became clear.

The movie began with a documentary-style interview featuring six teachers, telling their stories of becoming educators. Then, the camera returned to Renly, who, with calm expression, spoke in a low, measured tone.

"Most of the teachers here used to believe they could make a difference," Renly said, the weight of his words filling the theater. "I know how important it is to help others understand the complexities of the world." He paused, his eyes growing distant as if lost in thought. "When I was growing up, I never really had those." He stopped, not finishing the sentence, his jaw tightening as his gaze dimmed.

Sadness, confusion, bitterness—the emotions were subtle, hidden beneath a calm exterior, but the depth was undeniable. And just like that, the film had begun.

Mark, from the first scene, was captivated.

The film was about a school in crisis—plummeting grades, declining students, educators shirking responsibility. The school was a ruin, the decay palpable. Hope seemed to have abandoned the building, and the atmosphere was one of despair.

Enter Henry Barth, the story's protagonist, who arrived at the school as a substitute teacher. Dressed sharply, he walked into his first class with quiet confidence.

"Good morning," Henry said, placing his briefcase and coffee on the desk. He scanned the class, where only a few students replied to his greeting. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but it was more of a recognition than warmth. "I'm Mr. Barth. Many of you probably don't know me. This is the eleventh grade English class, right?"

He paused, surveying the room. "Listen, I only have one rule. Just one."

"If you don't want to stay here, don't come."

A Latino boy interrupted, "What do you mean, 'don't come'?"

Henry turned, wrote his name on the blackboard, "Not 'Dude,' but Mr. Barth. The 'S' is silent."

The boy muttered a curse.

"Marcus, shut up!" a girl yelled from the back.

"No, you shut up!" Marcus retorted, sending the classroom into laughter.

Henry, undeterred, moved calmly toward Marcus. "Guess what, Marcus? You can leave now."

Marcus, grinning smugly, stood up, "Now?"

"Yes, now."

With a dramatic flare, Marcus and his friends high-fived and walked toward the door, but Henry didn't flinch as he opened it.

"Are you sending me to the principal?" Marcus asked.

Henry calmly closed the door. "I don't care." He then returned to the class. "Everyone, take out a piece of paper. Let's see how good your writing is."

A student, sitting in the back, shouted, "What if we don't have paper?"

Henry ignored him and continued, "The situation is simple: You're dead. Write briefly about what your family or friends would say about you at your funeral. You have thirty minutes."

Some students snickered, others started murmuring. But the tension didn't break until a tall black student stood up, glaring at Henry.

"Hey, bastard! I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

Henry didn't react, simply observing the young man. He took in his features and smiled slightly.

"That bag you threw—it's empty. Just like you can't hurt me. I know you're angry. I used to feel the same way. But you don't need to take it out on me. I'm trying to give you a chance. So sit down, and do your work. I'll even give you a piece of paper."

The young man glared, his anger simmering, but he said nothing. He took the paper, his tone softening. "Can you at least give me a pen?"

Henry's smile never faded as he handed over the pen, his voice steady.

The classroom fell silent.