The Greatest Showman #1340 - Drunk Country Ballad

Emily Chen sat up straight, her eyes quickly scanning the room.

The Lumiere Hall was brightly lit, but the view was pitch dark. There were so many people gathered in the space that it felt like a dense forest, the crowd surging in every direction. The hall was packed to the brim, yet every corner seemed to still have more eager faces. It was a theater meant to hold 2,000, yet 6,000 seemed to have squeezed in.

Emily couldn't help but wonder if she'd even find a place to sit.

She sighed in relief, grateful she'd arrived early today. Although the line had been exaggeratedly long, the seating arrangements inside Lumiere Hall reassured her—its large capacity made things flow smoothly.

This was a film festival, so there were no assigned seats. Instead, attendees sat based on when they arrived. Aside from the few reserved spots for crew and jury members, most guests found their own places. Emily was fortunate to have secured a seat on the first floor, avoiding the second floor where the view could feel distant and less immersive.

The entire first floor was nearly full, and many of the media members who arrived before Emily had already headed upstairs. But, to her surprise, there was still a good portion of open seats. It seemed that many people had been too orderly or overly cautious, leaving spaces empty for others.

Of course, the Coen brothers' work wasn't the kind that relied heavily on visual effects, so sitting on the first floor was more of a stroke of luck than necessity.

"Today is wild, isn't it?" A voice from the right broke Emily's thoughts.

She smiled, thinking it was just a passing comment from a fellow attendee. "I thought the Leonardo DiCaprio scene was exaggerated, but this one—this is the real peak. I bet Fu Mao regrets not holding back; this one should've been suppressed again," she said with a light laugh.

As she turned her head, Emily froze in place. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "I'm curious now, what's it like being Renly Hall?"

Steven Spielberg, sitting nearby, leaned forward with a mischievous gleam in his eye and shouted in the direction of the front-left row, "Hey Renly, this lady has a question for you—what's it like being Renly Hall?"

Emily, caught off guard, followed Steven's gaze. There, she saw Renly, politely apologizing and moving to a central seat.

Renly raised his head, smiling slightly. "I answered that question in an interview with The New York Times before. If you're curious, you can read it," he replied.

Steven groaned dramatically. "Official answers—so boring," he muttered, even booing lightly.

Renly simply shrugged, a smug grin spreading across his face. "Well, that's the right of being Renly Hall."

With a playful tilt of his head, he turned back to his seat.

Emily and Steven exchanged a glance, each pausing for a moment before both breaking into amused smiles. Steven spread his hands, a mock helplessness in his expression. "Guess that's the right answer."

Emily burst into laughter, nodding in agreement.

The best part of the Cannes Film Festival was moments like this. Once the media members lined up and settled in, they became just ordinary spectators in the screening hall.

As is well-known, the central area of the hall offered the best viewing experience. Usually reserved for judges, crew, and important guests, it was open to everyone else to sit wherever they chose. Some might sit next to the judges, watching their reactions up close—were they asleep, crying, yawning? Did they stand up to applaud, or did they seem bored? Was the film a hit or a miss?

Others might watch alongside the cast and crew, observing how they reacted to the finished film—did the actors feel proud of their performance? What was the director's reaction? These moments provided the first-hand gossip and rumors that would eventually shape the film's reputation. Since the judges were prohibited from discussing films openly during the festival, these glimpses into their private reactions became invaluable sources of insight.

Emily felt lucky. To her right sat the president of the jury, in front of her was the film's lead actor, Renly, and just ahead were the Coen brothers and Carey Mulligan.

It was an unforgettable experience. Emily tried to maintain composure, but as the lights in Lumiere Hall dimmed, her attention was inevitably drawn to the screen.

The opening title sequence reflected the Coen brothers' approach—raw, stripped down, and minimalist. There were no flashy production company logos, no list of actors or producers—just a simple black background and the words, "Produced by the Coen Brothers."

Then the sound of guitar strings filled the air.

It wasn't the polished, studio-produced guitar music; it was the raw, unadulterated sound of an acoustic guitar, its vibrations reverberating throughout the room. In the total darkness of the theater, the audience's hearing was heightened, every subtle vibration of the strings felt like it was plucking at their very heartstrings.

The music wasn't a melody yet—just tuning.

The noise of a bar emerged around them—beer clinking against glasses, patrons chatting, bartenders pouring drinks, waiters moving back and forth—everything blended together to create the feeling of being in a busy bar.

The screen finally revealed the title: "Gaslamp Cafe, 1961."

A microphone appeared. The melody flowed, light and melancholic. No grand introduction, just the soft, almost imperceptible strum of a guitar as the face of a disheveled, weary man began to emerge from the shadows. His rough voice joined the guitar in a mournful, low hum.

"Hang me, oh, hang me, I shall soon die."

A shiver ran down Emily's spine.

On the screen, the man's sorrowful, gritty voice seemed to tell the story without words. The weight of the world hung around him as he trudged forward, his solitary figure leaving only a faint impression in the darkness. It was the quiet dignity of someone worn down by life but unwilling to stop moving.

Time seemed to slip backward with the mournful tune—2013, 2012, 2011... until it settled on 1961, an era scarred by war, but also a time of cultural and intellectual rebirth.

The film's opening took place in the Gaslamp Cafe, and under the Coen brothers' direction, Lumiere Hall transformed into that very cafe. The audience, now part of the scene, became patrons of the cafe, experiencing the folk performance firsthand.

In 1961, folk music was mainstream, a part of everyday life. But by 2013, it was almost forgotten, a relic of the past. The connection between the Gaslamp Cafe and Lumiere Hall transcended time, bridging the gap between eras.

After the performance, the patrons offered polite applause.

A conversation unfolded:

"You and Mickey used to sing this song together?"

"Yes."

"Boy, what a mess you were last night."

"Yeah... sorry, Papi. I'm an asshole."

"I don't care. It's just music. A friend of yours is in the back alley."

Afterward, the singer walked to the bar, exchanged a few words with the bartender, and then stepped into the alley. A rugged man, dressed like a cowboy, awaited in the shadows. Though his face was hidden, the tension was palpable—he had come for a confrontation, one that involved last night's chaos. Without a word, he beat the singer before disappearing into the night.

Emily, stunned, nodded with admiration. The Coen brothers had once again demonstrated their incredible ability to craft a story with minimal dialogue. With Renly's performance, they had elevated their work to an even higher level. The story, though still in its early moments, had already started to take shape.