The Greatest Showman#928 - good luck
"Renly! Renly! Renly!"
These were not the cheers of onlookers but the frenzied cries of reporters, their hoarse voices layering atop one another, igniting the red carpet with electric energy. The interviewers hadn't even begun their questions before the photographers erupted, calling out with unrestrained fervor.
A spectacle. An absolute phenomenon.
Not Brad and Angelina. Not George Clooney. Not Ryan Gosling. Not Tom Hanks. Not even Steven Spielberg or Meryl Streep. Renly Hall stood alone, towering above them all. From the audience to the press, from television broadcasts to fellow actors, all eyes converged on him, making him the undisputed center of attention on the red carpet.
"One more! One more!"
"Renly, over here! Look this way and smile!"
"Just one more shot, please! Please!"
The photo area had transformed into a battleground. Three full minutes of relentless shutter clicks and a dazzling onslaught of flashes weren't enough. The reporters' pleas were ceaseless, their desperation palpable. The scene spiraled into chaos, teetering on the edge of control.
This time, Renly didn't indulge them any longer. Flashing an apologetic smile at a fellow actor beside him, he stepped away from the photo area.
The meticulously planned sequence of arrivals was in shambles. The photo area, though expansive, was suffocating under the sheer volume of people. Sandra Bullock, Antonio Banderas, and Emma Stone occupied different spots, yet three-quarters of the cameras remained locked onto Renly. The sporadic flashes aimed at the others felt almost obligatory, an afterthought in comparison.
Cameron Diaz was giving an interview nearby, while Monaco's crown prince and princess graced the red carpet. Out of the corner of his eye, Renly caught sight of David Fincher and Michelle Williams speaking to reporters. Despite the vastness of the 300-meter red carpet, the sheer density of bodies made it feel impossibly congested.
As Renly exchanged glances with Sandra and Antonio, his gaze landed on Emma Stone, clad in an elegant red gown. The young actress, who had skyrocketed to fame that year with "Crazy, Stupid, Love" and "The Help," suddenly hiked up her skirt and sprinted toward him like an eager fan. Eyes wide, she didn't even attempt to contain her excitement.
"Jesus Christ, Mr. Hall! Can I take a picture with you?" she blurted out, breathless. "I really, really, really loved your performance in 'Like Crazy'! When I was filming with Ryan, I wouldn't stop talking about it. Now, whenever he sees me, he actively avoids me!"
A flicker of surprise crossed Renly's face before he let out a chuckle. "Of course! Here, or inside the venue? We could have Ryan take the picture—I'm sure he wouldn't refuse."
Emma gasped, covering her mouth in disbelief. "Really? Thank you! Oh—good luck! I wish you all the best tonight!" She waved enthusiastically before dashing back to her spot, striking a poised, elegant stance as the cameras resumed their assault.
Renly smiled, the amusement lingering in his expression. Without further delay, he stepped off the red carpet and headed toward the Kodak Theatre.
The grand hall on the first floor of the Kodak Theatre was alive with activity. Towering columns lined the entrance, inscribed with the names of past Best Picture winners. Inside, a mix of ceremony staff, behind-the-scenes crew, wandering guests, and live television teams buzzed about. As Renly entered, a ripple of recognition spread through the room—polite nods, warm smiles, and even clenched fists raised in silent encouragement.
"Good luck!" someone called out.
The sentiment followed him, enveloping him in a tide of geniality. It wasn't just an awards ceremony—it felt like a political campaign, with Renly as the clear frontrunner. The overwhelming goodwill was exhilarating yet surreal.
Then, slicing through the warmth, came a cold, razor-sharp stare.
Like an awl piercing through cloth, the gaze was impossible to ignore. Following the invisible thread, Renly's eyes landed on Harvey Weinstein.
Standing amidst a cluster of industry elites, Harvey lifted his champagne glass in a mock toast, his expression a mask of affability. But his eyes betrayed him, glinting with thinly veiled provocation.
Then, without warning, Harvey turned, made a brief gesture to those beside him, and, with calculated slowness, began striding toward Renly.
Bob Weinstein's reaction was immediate—panic flickered across his face before he quickly masked it. "Harvey!" he called, but Harvey didn't break stride. Realizing his protests were futile, Bob turned away, feigning nonchalance as he resumed his conversation.
Harvey came to a stop before Renly, his smile wide, his tone dripping with false geniality. "Look who it is—our great Renly Hall. The victim of a modern-day witch trial. The Uncrowned King. I hope all the drama hasn't been too hard on you. Wouldn't want to disappoint all those adoring fans."
His words were a scalpel, slicing with precision. Was this an open declaration of war?
Renly's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile. He met Harvey's gaze head-on, unflinching, allowing the silence to stretch. Those dark brown eyes—deep, unreadable—held an unsettling calm, as though peeling back the layers of Harvey's soul.
The quiet dragged on. Harvey's smirk twitched, his confidence wavering under the weight of Renly's unwavering stare.
Then Renly spoke, his voice a silken blade. "Tell me, Mr. Weinstein, do you know how the witch trials ended?"
Harvey's smile stiffened.
"Seventeenth to eighteenth century—post-Renaissance, post-Enlightenment—science and reason prevailed. The myths crumbled. The witch trials collapsed under their own absurdity. So, why, in the 21st century, do we still see them?"
A flicker of irritation crossed Harvey's face. "Who cares?" he scoffed.
Renly chuckled softly, the sound laced with something unreadable. "Back then, it was ignorance. Now, it's greed. Or perhaps both."
Harvey's nostrils flared. He didn't understand the full meaning of Renly's words, but he grasped the underlying derision.
Recovering swiftly, he narrowed his eyes, his tone hardening. "Hollywood is full of stars, kid. It's never about just one. The ones who think they're untouchable—well, let's just say, history hasn't been kind to them."
Renly raised an eyebrow, his expression one of amused realization. "Ah. So you do understand."
The words were an elegant dagger, slipping between Harvey's ribs with surgical precision. Who, after all, was the one convinced of their own omnipotence?
Harvey's smile returned, broader than before. He clapped a heavy hand on Renly's shoulder, pulling him into an exaggerated embrace. "He's got a great sense of humor, doesn't he? Really great humor."
The surrounding guests watched intently, every movement charged with unspoken tension.
One, the undisputed kingmaker of Hollywood, a titan feared by even the most powerful. The other, a meteoric star, unshaken, defiant, and untamed.
Harvey tightened his grip, whispering near Renly's ear. "Welcome to the Oscars, rookie. Welcome to the real world."
And just like that, the battle lines were drawn.