The Greatest Showman #1267 - Industry Commotion

Another ordinary morning in Hollywood— a city full of wonders and possibilities, day after day, year after year. Yet, for all its grandeur, office life remains monotonous, buried under an endless pile of paperwork. Over time, passion and enthusiasm are gradually worn away.

Miracles exist, but they're rare.

As per his routine, Barry Mayer arrived at the office at 10:00 AM, spread the newspaper across his desk, and with a cup of coffee in hand, began sifting through industry news. It was his daily ritual to stay informed, searching for any potential connections or emerging trends.

After finishing the paper, Barry turned his attention to the letters on his desk.

Despite the rise of e-mail in the 21st century, traditional letters still have a place, especially in Hollywood. Printed professional magazines like The Hollywood Reporter and Variety continue to be used in the industry, reflecting a sense of cultural tradition. The preserved tradition of handwritten letters also echoes the era of "closed room" practices.

In the 1970s and 1980s, "closing the room" was a rite of passage for every new employee in the industry. Whether in a talent agency or film company, newcomers were placed in a space—often the first floor—to familiarize themselves with industry rules, polish their skills, and understand the hierarchy between senior and junior employees.

While the practice has mostly disappeared, large production companies still maintain it. Sometimes it's used for the polishing of newcomers or as a way to collect unsolicited scripts from amateur screenwriters and producers, expanding their data repositories.

Of course, any letter that made it to Barry's desk had already undergone several layers of scrutiny— spam would never make it here.

He tore open a thick, brown envelope. Inside was a USB flash drive and a script. Barry furrowed his brows. Why was a script on his desk? Scripts should be directed to the production department, where professionals evaluate such projects—not his department.

Sighing heavily, Barry tossed the script aside, grabbed the phone, and connected to his secretary via the internal line.

"What's going on with this script on my desk?" Barry asked, his tone harsh. "This shouldn't be here. You need to check these things. I don't want to waste time on stuff like this. Do your job."

"Sir," the secretary's voice trembled, "that script came directly from Andy Rogers. He insisted that it be personally delivered to you, saying it's a project Renly likes."

Renly? That caught Barry's attention. Renly's name was always a strong card to play.

The secretary hesitated before continuing. "Also, Andy didn't just come to us; he also went to Universal Pictures."

Universal Pictures? That was a curveball. Everyone knew Ron Mayer and Renly didn't exactly see eye to eye. Their relationship was neither hostile nor particularly close— somewhere in between. Barry tried to piece together the events of Oscar night but was unable to connect the dots immediately.

After tapping his fingers against the desk for a while, Barry hung up, concluding that the secretary had nothing further to add.

There were too many unknowns and too few clues to make a decision. Barry set his thoughts aside for the moment, inserted the USB drive into his computer, and began watching the short video. Meanwhile, he opened the script and started skimming through it.

In a few minutes, the video was over. He hadn't made much progress with the script—just a few pages flipped, enough to grasp its outline and structure. Barry wasn't interested in the artistic merits or thematic ideas behind The Bursting Drummer—he wasn't an artist. As for its commercial potential, that was clear to him from the start.

It was a small project. Even if it made money, it would likely only bring in a few million. Independent art films like this rarely turned a substantial profit, and as for making a mark during awards season, that wasn't Barry's area of expertise.

For Warner Bros., this was just another small project among many. Every year, they invested in a handful of such works to ensure they stayed relevant during awards season. They bought independent films from major festivals, giving them a chance at recognition.

But Barry wasn't overly concerned with these smaller ventures. Warner Bros. had larger goals— projects that could shape their future. In this case, The Bursting Drummer didn't fit the bill.

Barry knew the film divisions of other studios— Focus Pictures at Universal, Fox Searchlight under Twentieth Century Fox, Miramax under Disney, and Paramount Classics— were all about discovering and promoting indie films. But Warner Bros. didn't focus as much on this area. They had New Line Pictures and Warner Independent, but those were smaller branches that didn't command the company's full attention.

Normally, Barry wouldn't waste time on such a project. He would pass it along to the appropriate department, trust them to handle it, and move on to more pressing matters. But this situation was different.

It seemed clear that timing played a significant role in this script landing on his desk. Even if it wasn't Renly's direct idea, it was Andy's initiative. Barry's intuition told him there was more to this.

The decision to invest in such an independent film was easy. A project like The Bursting Drummer could be funded with $10 million— a drop in the bucket for Warner Bros.

The question was: What did this project mean to Renly? What were his expectations? And more importantly, what impact could this have on Warner Bros.' future collaboration with Renly? Could his name bring the studio the commercial success it craved?

Not long ago, Barry had been celebrating Warner Bros.' growing relationship with Renly, with Edge of Tomorrow and Gravity marking key milestones. Now, a deeper collaboration seemed imminent. But was Renly ready to step into the role of producer on more than just a nominal level? Was he prepared to make an impact as a producer, not just an actor?

Barry had a hunch that Renly was on the verge of proving himself not just as a commercially viable actor but as a long-term asset to Warner Bros.— akin to a Christopher Nolan.

Then there was the possibility that this independent project wasn't just a test. Andy had left clues that Warner Bros. wasn't Renly's only option, presenting a subtle but clear message that other studios were eyeing the project too. Barry now faced a dilemma.

How should he respond?

After the Oscars concluded, the frenzy of awards season began to subside, and major film companies got back to work, focusing on the upcoming production cycle. With the Cannes Film Festival approaching and summer films ready to roll out, things would soon pick up again. However, March and April were quieter, a brief lull before the storm.

Meanwhile, the name "Renly Hall" began to reverberate through industry circles, causing ripples that eventually snowballed into a storm.

According to inside sources at Creative Artists Agency, Renly was preparing an independent project—a film that marked his first full involvement as a producer.

Though Renly had previously been listed as a producer on Edge of Tomorrow and Gravity, it was known that his role in production had been minimal, limited to character creation and script adjustments. His primary focus had been as an actor.

This time was different. Renly was fully engaged in the project from the ground up, actively raising funds and assuming real responsibility as a producer. What did this signify for his future in the industry?