The Greatest Showman #1237 - A Lot of Trouble

Oscar night is, without a doubt, a grand spectacle—an extravagant celebration. For the top celebrities, it's an opportunity to bask under the spotlight, surrounded by fame and adoration. For those still climbing the ranks, it is an essential event to ascend the social ladder and inch closer to the pinnacle of success. For the prepared, it's a coveted occasion. As such, the party has become the focus of many.

This was precisely the strategy behind Graydon Carter's thinking—and it clearly worked.

In 2001, British writer Toby Young released his memoir-style novel How to Betray Your Family, reflecting on his five years working at Vanity Fair magazine. A major portion of the book delves into the lavish world of Oscar night, exposing the glitz and luxury of Hollywood.

In 2008, this memoir was adapted into a film, starring Simon Pegg and Megan Fox. While the film's reception didn't meet expectations, it still offered a rare glimpse into the behind-the-scenes world of Vanity Fair—a peek into the often-hidden life under the glitzy surface of Hollywood.

Although the story is undoubtedly diluted and altered for the screen, it remains undeniably intriguing.

For Renly, receiving an Oscar night invitation was never an issue. Initially, after Pacific War, his eligibility might have been in question. But once he earned an Oscar nomination for Buried Alive, the invitation was practically guaranteed.

However, the real dilemma for Renly wasn't receiving an invitation—it was that these exclusive events held little allure or intrigue for him.

Renly had become accustomed to the vanity fair parties long before Hollywood, back in London. This was Arthur's domain, his job. Renly had escaped that world, dedicating himself entirely to his craft as an actor. Now, such events seemed irrelevant to him.

He had skipped Oscar night for the past two years, and even after his record-breaking Oscar win the previous year, he remained absent—uninterested in the hustle and bustle of Hollywood life.

For Vanity Fair, however, Renly's absence was a source of considerable concern.

It may seem hard to imagine, but Oscar night, brimming with star-studded guests, could be overshadowed by the absence of any one actor. In Hollywood, stars are never in short supply, but Renly's absence? That was a glaring void, one that was felt by nearly everyone.

Despite the thousand guests in attendance, the lack of one specific person was noticed. This wasn't about the crowd or the sheer volume of stars—it was about the symbolism of missing a truly unique figure.

So why did Vanity Fair care so much about Renly's presence? What made him so important?

To answer that, we need to understand the weight carried by the name Renly Hall.

With a North American box office gross exceeding $500 million, a streak of five consecutive box office hits, and a record as the youngest Oscar winner in film history, Renly's name was already synonymous with success. His professional acclaim was universal. But Graydon Carter recognized that it wasn't just Renly's career that set him apart—it was his aristocratic lineage.

Last summer, Empire magazine leaked details about Renly's family background, setting off a flurry of discussion online. While the revelation initially shocked and fascinated many, the public eventually calmed. For most, the concept of hereditary nobility seemed distant, and without tangible influence, the intrigue faded.

But in Hollywood's Vanity Fair, the effect was far more profound.

For this elite group—wealthy, powerful, and influential—what they craved most was not money, but fame. Philanthropy could secure some level of recognition, but true prestige could only be attained through connections with real royalty. And there was only one real royal family left with inherited power—the British monarchy.

This connection was coveted. Even the top industry moguls like Steven Spielberg, Harvey Weinstein, and James Cameron, if they desired this level of glory, had to align themselves with the British royal family.

For ordinary people, such glory might seem irrelevant. But in Hollywood, it represented an unattainable dream.

Thus, when Renly's aristocratic title was revealed, even though it was only a barony, it sent shockwaves through the industry. For the first time, Hollywood had a real hereditary aristocrat in its midst.

This created both admiration and envy. Here was someone who had not just achieved fame, but had inherited a prestigious title that could unlock access to the highest echelons of society. To connect with Renly, to be associated with him, meant potentially gaining access to an exclusive world.

While actors like Eddie Redmayne, Tom Hiddleston, and Benedict Cumberbatch had some aristocratic ties, they lacked the historical depth of Renly's lineage. As such, they didn't belong to the true upper class and were seen more as second-generation stars.

But Renly was different.

His arrival in Hollywood wasn't just the appearance of a successful actor—it marked the emergence of a true aristocrat who had broken through the barriers between commoners and nobles. Though not the first actor with noble heritage, Renly's unprecedented success made his story more significant.

Why, then, did the Halls oppose Renly's rise? Why was his presence in New York so pivotal? Why did the Almeida production create such a stir? Why was Empire magazine's coverage so impactful? Why was Renly's absence at Oscar night such a big deal?

The answer to all these questions lies in one core truth:

For most, receiving an invitation to Oscar night is an honor. But for Vanity Fair, it was an even greater honor to have Renly in attendance.

Graydon knew this. Hollywood knew this.

In fact, when Les Miserables was on its Broadway tour, Graydon himself made a special trip to the theater, renting a box for a week and inviting numerous celebrities. During this time, he met Renly and sent a warm, friendly signal.

Since Graydon took the helm of Vanity Fair in 1991, he had single-handedly built the magazine into one of the most influential in North America. Despite the digital age's challenges, it remained a best-seller, outpacing magazines like Entertainment Weekly and US Weekly.

As an industry leader, Graydon's insight and judgment were unmatched.

During his time on Broadway, Graydon never made his intentions clear. He remained subtle in his approach, never pushing too hard. But when the Oscars loomed, he became more direct, first discussing the matter in November. His invitation to Renly was clear—he hoped Renly would attend.

Graydon's efforts, in the end, were not without difficulty. Securing Renly's presence at the Oscar night had been a long, deliberate process.