The Greatest Showman #1183 – Throw Away Crutches

The room fell into a brief silence as everyone exchanged glances. There was a shared understanding in their eyes—one that only they could comprehend. It wasn't just the cast who felt this tension, but the crew as well.

Renly had become a subject of endless speculation in the industry. There was a conspicuous scarcity of concrete details about him, creating an atmosphere of mystery. This information imbalance fueled expectations and sharpened critiques.

This was especially true after his Oscar win for Best Actor the previous year, a victory that shattered records and left people both in awe and in search of fault. Vanity Fair, after all, is a circle rife with envy and conjecture. The higher you rise, the more pressure mounts; the more attention you garner, the more prejudice you face.

Just moments ago, Renly's momentary distraction and the calm that followed when he was seen through seemed to offer an array of interpretations: arrogance? Wildness? Absent-mindedness? Or perhaps a loss of self?

Industry rumors painted Renly as an actor of unparalleled dedication, yet what he had just exhibited seemed to defy that narrative. This was no longer the committed artist at work, but rather, another "superstar" manufactured by agents and publicists. His peers, with their expressions, offered their own theories—some joking, some sarcastic, others profound.

Yet, Renly seemed oblivious to these appraisals. He met Joel's gaze and lowered his chin in acknowledgment. "Yes, actually, I was just thinking about this," he said. "The movie shows a cycle. Le Vern goes around in circles, trying to make a change, but in the end, he's helpless, returning to the starting point. It's as if he's made many attempts, but nothing changes."

The surrounding murmurings gradually faded as everyone turned their attention to Renly, assuming he was speaking about the film's thematic arc. However, his words hinted at something deeper.

"Le Vern is caught in a life predicament," Renly continued. "He's wandering, confused, and disoriented. He's attempting to find stability, but the restlessness in his heart prevents him from truly settling. He tries to abandon his dreams, but ultimately ends up back where he started."

"In terms of filmmaking, this might look like going in circles, returning to the original point. But for performance, it's about how the circle is traversed and what internal shifts occur throughout that cycle. What really matters is how you communicate that experience—is it through music, or through performance?"

Renly was genuinely contemplating his words. Leaving behind the "Gravity" crew, he had started thinking deeply about his next role. He had truly immersed himself in it.

Without question, this was one of the most unusual roles in Renly's career. Le Vern-Davis is a character who doesn't change—not in any noticeable or substantial way.

Even in survival films like Buried Alive or Gravity, which unfold within a confined time frame, the characters undergo intense psychological transformations. In many of Renly's other works, the character's state constantly evolves, providing a curve that traces the actor's shifting performance.

In contrast, Drunk Town Folk Ballad was a departure. Le Vern remained unchanged, a character stuck in a repetitive loop, either moving in circles or standing still. From the beginning to the end of the film, his emotions, state of mind, and demeanor remained largely static. He was like a trapped beast.

And that, according to the Coen brothers, was the point.

This posed a significant challenge for an actor. Simply put, there was no "performance crutch."

What is a performance crutch?

A crutch is a means of emotional release or a point of external intensity. Anger, grief, joy, sadness—any dramatic emotional surge can act as a crutch. Think of the cancer-stricken character in The Anti-Cancer Me, or the dramatic breakup scene in Love Crazy. These moments of emotional explosion are what audiences remember, and they often become the focal points of awards ceremonies.

Such emotional outbursts are a favorite of both critics and general audiences, as they offer a tangible, visible expression of acting prowess. It's like a theatrical moment of raw emotion, one that shocks and captivates.

For an actor, however, relying on these crutches too much can stifle growth. The result? A repetitive, confined style that risks stagnation. Leonardo DiCaprio, a prime example, spent years stuck in this very trap.

Many wondered why DiCaprio, despite his talent, never seemed to catch the Academy's attention. Even when he finally won the Oscar for The Revenant, it was more because his competitors lacked the range to challenge him, not necessarily because of any breakthrough in his performance.

Two primary reasons underpinned this issue.

First, DiCaprio's roles were too reliant on emotional extremes. Whether it was the psychological trauma in Shutter Island, the rebellion in Catch Me If You Can, or the madness in The Wolf of Wall Street, his characters often centered on explosive emotions. Without these crutches, his performances could feel flat, as seen in films like Titanic and Inception.

Second, this overreliance on emotional crutches led to a sense of predictability. His performances began to feel repetitive, lacking the depth and variety that audiences and critics crave.

Jennifer Lawrence, who rose to fame early in her career, faced a similar challenge. While her performances were frequently explosive, they lacked the depth and variety necessary for long-term artistic growth.

For audiences, these emotional explosions are captivating because they're easily understood and visually striking. But for actors, they often signal a lack of versatility. A role with such explosive moments can appear impressive but ultimately fails to develop a lasting impact.

A contrasting example can be found in Colin Firth's performances in A Single Man and The King's Speech. The former is a restrained, internal performance, where Firth masterfully conveys complexity without grand emotional outbursts. The latter is more extroverted, with Firth using outward expression to communicate his character's struggles.

While the Academy might prefer the latter, those within the industry often favor the former, appreciating the depth and nuance of restrained performances.

Renly, too, experienced this shift in understanding.

As a movie fan in his past life, he was drawn to big, visible performances, easily digestible for an audience. But now, having studied acting, he began to appreciate the subtler aspects of performance. The transition from superficial to deep was gradual, but it fundamentally changed how he viewed his craft.

Without crutches, acting becomes far more challenging. It requires an actor to deeply understand the character, the story, and the creator's intentions. The performance must rely on subtlety and skill rather than relying on easy emotional releases.

Le Vern-Davis shares much in common with characters from European films, such as the protagonist in The Son of John. The story of a man learning of his father's death, only to discover the truth, is understated, its emotions conveyed through quiet gestures and lingering silences. The film doesn't rely on overt drama, instead conveying depth through nuanced expressions and quiet interactions.

This is precisely what European cinema excels at—hiding the storm beneath a calm surface, allowing gestures, looks, and the silence between words to tell the story.

Renly found similarities between Le Vern-Davis and characters from these films—roles that require no crutches, relying solely on the actor's understanding and the subtle interpretation of the material.

In Drunk Town Folk Ballad, the character remains unchanged from start to finish, maintaining a calm demeanor throughout. The emotional shift may be present but is fleeting, leaving the character—and the actor—forever in a state of suspended tension.

This was a breakthrough for Renly, as he found himself playing a role that truly had no emotional crutches. It was a challenge unlike any he had faced before.