The Greatest Showman #1196 - Fake the Real

It's absurd to say it, but it's true.

On one hand, Ethan believes that Renly is Le Vern, the whole performance flowing naturally with no flaws, the aura and texture of his every gesture flawless. On the other hand, Ethan fears that Renly is too much like Le Vern—so much so that it risks the performance feeling less like acting and more like Renly himself, which could spell trouble for "Drunken Country Ballads."

After realizing his own confusion, Ethan bursts into laughter. At first, they insisted on using Renly because his temperament aligned closely with Le Vern's, but now Ethan's worried that Renly will play Le Vern as if he were himself—this contradiction is hard to ignore. But then again, given Renly's talent, they've already confirmed this themselves, right?

The more Ethan thinks about it, the more absurd the idea seems.

However, this only proves that Renly's performance has reached an extraordinary level, so much so that even the director has blurred the lines between reality and fiction, creating an illusion. It's a bold notion, but if the first scene's effect is anything to go by, it's working. As for what follows, only time will tell.

Ethan's curiosity about Renly's portrayal of Le Vern grows. What exactly is the difference between the two? How will Renly's performance shape up? Or, has Renly truly made Le Vern his own?

The first scene was a whirlwind of thoughts, but Ethan knows he needs to focus now.

"I mean, Le Vern was a down-and-out singer," Ethan begins, "the most insignificant and unremarkable kind—just another figure at the bar. He's not Renly, and he shouldn't be getting this much applause."

Laughter erupts from the bar, and a few people whistle.

Ethan smiles again. "The scene's simple—everyone's enjoying a performance in a tavern, and there's no one important on the stage. But when the performer finishes singing, everyone politely claps, just a second's worth. I know people love Renly's performance, but I need you to hold back just a bit."

"Can we laugh, though?" someone calls from the crowd.

"Of course!" Ethan nods enthusiastically. "But... everyone needs to calm down. This is just an ordinary night, with an ordinary singer performing. If you like it, a few whistles are fine. If you don't, feel free to chat or drink, but please, restraint. We can't have the thunderous applause from earlier."

The Coen brothers had a solid plan—using real folk fans to set the atmosphere in the gaslight bar, authentically capturing the 1960s vibe. But in execution, they misjudged Renly's popularity and underestimated his skill.

In the first scene, everyone had been so focused on avoiding mistakes, but the real issue turned out to be that the audience's enthusiasm had made it impossible to proceed as planned, leading to a re-shoot.

Ethan turns to Renly. "You okay?"

Ethan can feel the raw emotion of the song they just shot, conveyed through Renly's singing. Performing, whether as a singer or an actor, requires a specific rhythm, and now they have to reset. He worries a bit.

Renly quirks an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips, exuding an air of casual indifference.

"It's just a show." His dark brown eyes glint with an elusive mix of irritability, bitterness, indulgence, and arrogance—fleeting but unmistakable. He adds, with a slight shrug, "Guess I can't smoke, huh?"

"Sorry, no time," Ethan replies instinctively.

Renly brushes it off with a light pat on Ethan's arm, guitar in hand, and heads back to the stage to start again.

Ethan feels something is off. He turns around just in time to catch Renly's back as he walks away—his hand casually scratching his head, hair messy and unruly, the damp curls exploding defiantly in the stage light.

It's not Renly; it's Le Vern.

The pride, the aloofness, the introversion, the focus—they're there, but with a raw, casual, audacious edge. More relaxed, more free, more arrogant, more carefree. It's unpolished, but that's exactly what makes it so captivating.

This isn't a critique—it's a compliment. Renly channels something more elusive, a distant air of intellectual superiority, giving off an almost imperceptible sense of alienation. Yet, at the same time, there's an undeniable earthy, grounded quality to him, like a homeless man content in his own way.

That unrefined roughness infuses every gesture. There's no performance to it, just a feeling—one that's utterly different from what Ethan expected.

Is this what acting is?

Ethan can't help but be left with a fleeting sense of awe. But Renly's figure vanishes into the shadows before Ethan can fully reflect, leaving him to question whether what he felt was a moment of inspiration or just a fleeting illusion.

For the first time, Ethan finds himself truly curious about acting.

Different, still different.

Although Renly isn't yet an old hand at performance, his depth of experience has shaped his understanding of acting. From "Detachment" to "Les Miserables" to "Gravity," Renly has been blending methodical and expressive styles, little by little.

Renly and Le Vern are fundamentally different.

Renly has no safety net. He has no family to fall back on, no friends to turn to for help, no emotional anchors. His two lives—one in this world, the other from the past—have shaped him. Upon arriving in New York, he dove headfirst into his dreams, without distractions.

Much like Le Vern, Renly has questioned his future, been uncertain of the present. But Renly keeps moving forward, while Le Vern is paralyzed by indecision, trapped in place.

Le Vern's life is full of stagnation and regret, constantly looking backward. His dreams are suffused with the bitterness of reality, uncertain, unsure of every step. The hesitation gradually crushed his pride. His only solace was music, his one escape.

But Renly knows the difference.

It's this understanding that drives Renly to consider life, the times, fate, and his purpose.

Why did Le Vern choose ballads? What was his journey before the events of the movie? What was the story behind the recording of "About LeVern-Davis"? These ballads represent both Le Vern's dreams and his life, shaped by the turbulence of the era.

In the end, Le Vern returns to the place where it all began. Is this fate? Personality? Was his life doomed from the start? And why did Bob Dylan escape while Le Vern faded?

For the first time, Renly builds a character not solely from a script, but through song after song—using Dave Van Ronk's music to shape Le Vern's character. And in doing so, Renly blurs the line between himself and the character.

Renly has entered an unprecedented state of performance—similar to "Gravity," but more relaxed, more at ease.

Most actors rely on "crutches"—tools and techniques to help shape their performance. But Renly thrives without them, performing solely based on his own understanding and interpretation.

His most private and vulnerable side bleeds into the performance, and yet, it is carefully hidden behind the character. The boundaries between Method and Expressionism fade as he seamlessly blends them.

The result is indulgent, carefree, rebellious, and free.

This state of performance immerses the audience in art, allowing them to experience its true essence.

When acting and singing merge, the emotional release flows naturally. The performance requires little effort to sculpt—it simply happens. It's as if it's meant to be, effortlessly.

It's a step beyond the state Renly achieved in "Gravity," more relaxed and natural.

Now, Renly no longer worries about acting technique or the line between truth and illusion. He reveals himself fully before the camera—true and false blend, and nothing else matters.

Full of bitterness, exhaustion, and a carefree joy, he plays, unrestrained and enjoying every moment.

It's only today that Renly truly understands the highest level of acting.