The Greatest Showman #900 - Alone

Using the media to fight the media isn't uncommon. It's been a practice for years, especially among publications like The New York Times and Los Angeles Times, and in professional magazines like The New Yorker and Time. These outlets have long criticized entertainment media, led by News Corporation and Entertainment Weekly. On one hand, the rise of the "entertainment-to-death" culture in the internet age has become unmanageable. On the other, the authenticity and accuracy of news have plummeted since the national entertainment culture took over.

Strictly speaking, what these critics are attacking isn't just rival media but the trend of an entire industry that's spiraling into decline, out of control, and stagnant.

Lydia had decided to take the hard route—bypassing Entertainment Weekly's accusations and Harvey Weinstein's behind-the-scenes maneuvers. Instead, she pointed to the broader issues in the industry—hoping to shift the focus and, in doing so, completely reverse the situation. Her courage was evident, and truly impressive.

However, turning that idea into action was far from simple.

The group sat in a circle, discussing everything in meticulous detail. Tasks were assigned. They had to address everything—Renly's background, accusations of malicious hype, and jealousy over his swift rise—if they were going to protect their reputation and restore Renly's image. There was still a mountain of work ahead.

When Renly returned, it was just past 10 p.m. The delay had been because of Annie's schedule and the kids being tired. They had dinner together after the fireworks, then returned to the hotel. So, his return wasn't too late.

The meeting lasted well into the early morning hours, ending after midnight. But Lydia and Andy stayed behind. As Renly's publicist, Lydia had to continue working on the media strategy, while Andy, as his agent, needed to coordinate the entire creative agency to make the plan work.

Renly returned to his room, took a shower, and washed off the day's fatigue. But tonight, he didn't rush to dry his hair or prepare for bed. Instead, he stepped out onto the balcony, gazing at the dark Los Angeles night. The dark purple sky, faintly haloed in light, was vast and bright, offering a completely different temperament from the East Coast.

A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, its smell drifting up under his nose. He considered lighting it, though tonight he felt an urge he couldn't shake.

Deep inside, he wasn't as calm as he appeared. The turmoil lingered beneath the surface.

Renly didn't care about the criticism from Entertainment Weekly or the other media. He had predicted something like this back during the Berlin Film Festival. He knew even if it wasn't a "one-man concert," there would be other chances, other excuses, other events—sooner or later, something like this would come.

The only question was when, and how intense it would get.

As someone who studied journalism and graduated from Cambridge, Renly understood how the media worked. He knew the tactics reporters used, and he wasn't afraid of them. He also knew that the real problem lay with the fans, not the journalists.

Standing on the outside of this chaos, Renly often reminded himself that other people's opinions were just that—opinions. Tom Hanks didn't change himself based on others' judgments, and neither should he. If Renly constantly adjusted himself to fit other people's views, he would lose his own sense of self.

But standing amidst the storm now, Renly realized how much easier it is to give advice than to follow it. Despite telling himself to be indifferent to the insults and provocations, it was hard to ignore the jabs. Maybe he wasn't as strong as he thought.

Earlier that afternoon at Disneyland, a kid had spat near him. The child didn't hit him, but still, he shouted, "Liar! You make me sick!" The anger was fierce, almost theatrical, as he raised his hands and yelled again, "Disgusting!"

The kid was only fifteen or sixteen—young, full of hatred, and out of place in such a place as Disneyland. It was shocking, and it rattled Renly deeply.

Annie and Alex had been by his side, and they were terrified. Alex had tried to charge at the kid, his fists raised. "What did you just say?!" he yelled. Annie clung to Renly's arm, trembling, unable to speak.

Renly held Alex back, trying to calm him down. But Alex stood there, confused and upset, tears in his eyes. "Why did he say that to you? Why?" he asked, his voice breaking, though he clenched his fists in defiance.

In that moment, Renly felt utterly humiliated. He wanted to strike out at the boy, but he couldn't. He couldn't let Alex or Annie see this hatred. They didn't deserve to feel this hurt.

Did he deserve it? Had he really done something wrong? Shouldn't he have held his concert? Was his promise so wrong to keep? Was he wrong to hold on to his dream?

If Heather's death was somehow his fault...

Renly squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the dark thoughts away. He couldn't let himself dwell on that. It was too much, almost suffocating.

He had once believed that his dream of being "Don Quixote" had come true—not just through the success of the concert or the Grammy awards, but through people like George Slender, Herbert Jones, and Heather Chloe—faces that truly understood the essence of his music.

Renly had thought he wasn't alone anymore—that his persistence, his ideals, and his soul had finally found kindred spirits in those who supported him, filling places like Lincoln Center and Madison Square Garden.

But now, all of that seemed fragile, as if it was just his wishful thinking. A dream that he was not really living. Now, it felt like he was alone again. Everything he had worked for, everything he had fought for, seemed to crumble in an instant—reduced to ashes by a few careless words from Entertainment Weekly.

The words of George Hall echoed in his mind like a nightmare:

"You should understand that needless persistence is stupid. You're not a genius, just a fool with a daydream. The chance of success is zero. Dreaming is just an excuse for losers to comfort themselves."

The bitterness of those words was suffocating. Despite his achievements, Renly felt powerless for the first time since his rebirth. He had been running toward his dream, thinking it was all worthwhile. But now, he felt lost, as if everything had been in vain.

Renly took a deep breath, the smell of tobacco mixing with the coolness of the night air. His fingers played with the cigarette between them, undecided whether to light it.

Should he or shouldn't he?

The indecision gnawed at him, but then he realized—this was not who he was. He wasn't the kind of man to wallow in self-pity or question himself. He wasn't going to give up.

He wasn't Chu Jiashu anymore. He was Renly Hall.

Even if he had to walk alone, even if no one understood him, he would keep his head held high and keep moving forward, until the very end.