The Greatest Showman #1195 - Break Reality

Light and shadow wove together in an ethereal dance, blurring the boundaries of time and space. Thoughts took wing in the melody, soaring freely, carried by the wind. From the kerosene lamp bar to Greenwich Village, from New York to a distant land... Standing atop a mountain, gazing down at all of life, overlooking the ocean from a cliff, roaming the sky and embracing the world.

He, bathed in a soft, cream-yellow halo, sang with a voice that was both gentle and haunting. The music carried the weight of time and sorrow, yet it was beautiful and moving, its bitterness and loneliness rising softly between his brows. His frame, though marked by struggle and brokenness, seemed to be nothing more than the voice itself—a body as proud and fierce as winter plum blossoms defying the frost.

He sang, "Hang me, oh, hang me, and I shall die."

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, but the glow in his eyes faded into a blur, capturing only the traces of rebellion and indifference deep within. Beneath the disheveled hair and thick stubble, there was only the essence of a soul unbound by convention.

He paused, rubbed his nose lightly, then adjusted his guitar. His gaze dropped as he pondered the performance, his expression softening in contentment. Without missing a beat, he turned to the microphone.

"You may have heard this before," he began. His voice carried an effortless arrogance, a casualness that hinted at stubbornness beneath its carelessness. "If a song never feels new, yet never gets old, it's a folk song."

He chuckled to himself. A wry, mocking smile spread across his face, lighthearted and self-deprecating. Even in that moment, he radiated a quiet brilliance—every gesture, every look, touched the heart of the moment. With a shrug, he stood up, ready to exit the stage.

It was as though the magic of music had been broken, the flow of time rushing back in an instant. Applause erupted in a single breath, like a volcanic eruption, shaking the entire kerosene lamp bar. The sound reverberated, blending with whistles, cheers, and shouts—a deafening roar.

George Slender, sitting in the audience, froze, unable to respond for a moment. The applause crashed around him, relentless, until he slowly recovered. A smile began to bloom on his face, the edges stretching wider in amazement.

Two years had passed, and Renly's performance still held power. The emotions embedded in the lyrics and melody stirred something deep within, quietly unearthing long-buried scars. It was as if the wounds of time were softened by the details in his voice, adding a touch of carefree rebellion to the sorrow.

But George wasn't sure about one thing: Was this the soul carved by time? Renly had maintained the purity that marked his performance in Don Quixote two years ago—perhaps even more refined, more transparent. In Hollywood's cutthroat environment, that was rare. It was the power of performance itself, born of integrity, not commercial ambition.

As the ballad flowed through the air, the light and shadow seemed to rewind, pulling them back to the 1960s—the era of folk music's madness, an era where art endured despite the encroaching forces of business. Sitting in a bar, listening to a night of live music, was far more fulfilling than anything modern technology could offer.

In a fleeting moment, George felt the line between reality and fantasy blur, unsure whether it was Renly or LeVerne on stage. Both were the same—trapped in a dream, resistant to compromise.

As the last notes lingered, laughter and tears mingled in George's eyes, softened by the warmth of the moment.

He lowered his gaze, noticing Stanley Charlesson sitting beside him. Stanley, beer in hand, smiled contentedly, his gaze locked on the stage. A cigarette burned in the ashtray beside him.

Stanley looked at George, then raised his beer in a silent toast. He sipped, nodding in appreciation, his expression one of simple enjoyment—of being lost in the beauty of this moment.

George turned back to the stage. Renly's earthy, grounded presence on stage held an irresistible charm. The 1960s had been a time of reckoning for men like him—talented, yet unfashionable for the commercial world. Renly's performance, like LeVerne's, was not the stuff of radio hits. It was raw, gritty, and too stubborn to fit neatly into the commercial mold.

"Hang me, oh, hang me…" he thought. God, if he heard a song like that on the radio, he might just hang himself willingly. The complaints would be endless. But here, in this bar, it was magic.

"Haha," George chuckled softly, fingers whistling through the air.

Sixties or modern? Gaslight Bar or Pioneer Village? LeVerne or Renly?

Did it matter?

The boundaries had been obliterated. Everything was real, everything was illusory. All that mattered was to be immersed in the music, to embrace freedom, to wander the world, chase dreams, and let life bloom. When that freedom fades, hanging will no longer seem so terrible.

The place was alive with energy. Applause, whistles, cheers, and someone shouted, "Encore! Encore!"

The scene was so full of life that reality seemed to break away entirely. A short man, bearded and cheerful, emerged from the side of the stage—a Kiwi, wearing a helpless smile. Ethan Cohen had been caught in the moment, unable to break the spell.

"We're filming, people," he called out, trying in vain to regain control of the scene. "This is a movie, not reality."

The crowd, unbothered, only cheered louder.

Ethan shook his head, a mix of laughter and frustration on his face. This was perfect, in every sense of the word.

Renly's singing was effortless, a natural blend of performance and emotion. "Hang me, oh, hang me" was more than just a song; it was a narrative, one that Renly conveyed so seamlessly that it felt like the song itself was telling the story.

It was the first scene, but they already knew: this was better than even their wildest expectations. It was a portrayal of LeVerne that transcended all they had imagined. The contradictions in the character—his arrogance, his bitterness, his unyielding spirit—blended into the melody, creating something truly unforgettable.

At first, the Coen brothers had their doubts—not about Renly's ability, but about his state. He had just wrapped Gravity and didn't have much time to prepare for Drunken Country Ballad. But the doubts proved unwarranted. Renly was more than ready.

The problem, though, was this: Renly's performance was so powerful that it blurred the lines between reality and fiction. They'd forgotten they were filming.

The Coen brothers had hoped for top-tier performances, but what they got was something beyond their expectations. Joel stood at the edge of the stage, laughing, clapping, caught in the absurdity of it all.

In the end, Ethan had to step in.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know Renly's performance was incredible, beyond what we imagined," Ethan said, his voice filled with awe. "Honestly, if Levine was this good, he should have been heard."

"No," Renly's voice came from the side, interrupting. "In those days, there were too many talented singers." He shrugged with a playful smile, "But I agree. I should've been on the radio."

The tone of Renly's voice switched effortlessly from himself to LeVerne's, leaving the brothers in awe. They knew, from that moment on, they had something truly remarkable in their hands.

Ethan, still processing what had just unfolded, couldn't help but wonder: Was this performance just Renly being himself, or was it a carefully crafted show? Either way, it was flawless. But what did that mean for the line between actor and character?

This was only the first day of filming, but already Ethan knew this project would be unlike anything they'd ever experienced.