The Greatest Showman#1379 - challenge puzzle
Practicing on a dumb drum was only the most fundamental step, a foundation to build upon. But transitioning to a real drum set—a complex instrument with multiple components—was an entirely different challenge. Techniques that seemed perfected on the dumb drum became unfamiliar and overwhelming when applied to a full kit. This was a necessary step in the learning process, one that every drummer had to experience.
Many beginners mistakenly dismissed dumb drum practice as ineffective for real drumming, believing that training should only be done on an actual drum set. However, the reality was quite the opposite. The struggle they faced in adapting to a real drum kit often stemmed from a lack of solid foundational training.
A dumb drum consists of only a single striking surface, whereas a full drum set is a complex assembly: kick drum, snare drum, toms, crash cymbals, ride cymbal, hi-hat, and sometimes additional percussion instruments like cowbells, woodblocks, shakers, and triangles. Despite the number of elements, a single drummer must control them all seamlessly, maintaining steady rhythm and even coordination as they transition between components.
Solid foundational skills developed on a dumb drum allow for a smooth transition to a full kit. Without this groundwork, drummers often find themselves overwhelmed and struggling to keep up. While casual drummers might get away with skipping dumb drum practice, those aiming for precision and complexity risk losing their rhythm and control during demanding performances, potentially turning a piece into a chaotic disaster.
There are no shortcuts in mastering an instrument.
Renly dedicated seven days to dumb drum practice and another three weeks to real drum fundamentals. With four hours of instruction and four additional hours of practice each day, he trained like an aspiring Juilliard candidate, wholly committed to refining his skills. Over the course of a month, he abandoned rest, vacations, and distractions, focusing solely on technical development.
By the end of this period, Renly had successfully transitioned from a beginner to a competent drummer. While he was not yet exceptional, his musicality, innate rhythm, and solid piano background elevated his playing beyond the average level, unlocking potential that could be further honed with time and effort.
What was remarkable was not just his progress, but the speed at which he achieved it—one month of relentless practice had yielded tangible results.
A Shift in Johansen's Attitude
Renly began to notice a subtle change in Johansen's demeanor.
His instructor, once somewhat distant, had become more professional, more businesslike in tone. Classes ran more smoothly, and Johansen's instruction became increasingly precise. Renly didn't dwell on the reason—his attention remained on his training—but the shift was undeniable.
Johansen may not have been a musical prodigy himself, but he was an excellent teacher.
Teaching requires a different skill set than performing. Many virtuosos struggle to pass on their knowledge because what comes naturally to them may not be intuitive for others. Conversely, some instructors excel at pinpointing students' weaknesses and tailoring exercises to help them improve, even if they are not world-class performers themselves. Johansen was such a teacher.
He had a sharp eye for flaws, methodically adjusting Renly's training to correct them. Moreover, Renly proved to be an exceptional student—his musical background, dedication, and disciplined approach gave Johansen room to push him further.
One day, George Slender remarked that Renly might have an even greater future in music than in acting.
The most compelling aspect of Renly's music was his emotional connection. His ability to infuse melodies with raw, lived-in emotions resonated deeply, a rare and valuable trait for a musician. Beyond that, his rhythm and musical instincts—while not prodigious—were outstanding, exuding a natural musicality that could be considered a gift.
In just four weeks, Renly's grasp of fundamental drumming skills had grown immensely. His technical improvement, combined with his natural rhythm and tireless work ethic, encouraged Johansen to challenge him further, pushing the limits of his abilities.
At some point, Johansen seemed to forget that Renly was only learning the drums for a role.
More Than Just a Film
In truth, Renly had already learned enough to handle the drumming sequences in Whiplash.
No matter how much effort he put in, he could not become a world-class drummer in just a few months. During filming, every drum sequence he performed would be genuine, but in post-production, his playing would be synced with recordings by Peter Erskine, one of the greatest jazz drummers alive.
Damien Chazelle had already confirmed Erskine's involvement—he would be Renly's musical backbone, ensuring that even the most complex drumming sequences sounded impeccable.
By this point, Renly had every reason to stop training. He had reached the necessary level to convincingly portray Andrew Neiman on screen.
But he refused to settle.
Just as he had fully immersed himself in Buried and Gravity, Renly wanted to truly understand his character's journey. Andrew Neiman's obsession with drumming, his relentless pursuit of perfection, his frustrations and failures—Renly needed to experience those emotions firsthand.
For a drummer, speed, control, tone, and rhythm are equally critical. But Andrew, as a freshman just beginning his journey, focused solely on speed. He believed that hitting 400 beats per minute was the ultimate goal, that achieving that velocity would make him great.
Andrew's idol was Buddy Rich, one of the most legendary jazz drummers in history. His performance of The Four Hundred Blows was the pinnacle of drumming mastery—flawlessly controlled, perfectly timed, each beat distinct yet seamlessly connected. At his peak, Rich could maintain between 330 and 400 beats per minute, creating a relentless storm of sound that left audiences in awe.
Andrew, in his naive ambition, chased that speed.
Renly knew he would never reach that level in mere months, but he wanted to understand Andrew's mindset—his desire, his frustration, and his desperation to break through.
The Struggle of Speed
Renly sat before the snare drum, raising his sticks. No cymbals, no toms—just the snare.
The wrist had to stay loose. The drumsticks needed to bounce naturally, driven by the fingers and controlled by the smallest muscles. Arm strength was not the answer; forcing the motion would only stiffen the muscles, reducing fluidity. The faster he tried to play, the more his form broke down.
His mind knew the theory, but executing it was another matter entirely.
As he attempted to increase speed, his control faltered. Instead of relaxed vibrations, his forearm engaged too much, transforming his strokes into clumsy, forceful swings. The rhythm collapsed. The more he tried to compensate, the more chaotic it became.
Frustrated, he stopped.
He had barely reached 240 beats per minute—far from 400. The moment he approached 300, his form disintegrated. The rhythm shattered. The flow of music vanished, replaced by frantic, uncontrolled striking.
Terrible.
Letting out a long sigh, Renly glanced up. Rooney Mara sat cross-legged on the floor, observing him. He managed a wry smile. "So? Did you feel it?"
Rooney tilted her head, a teasing smirk forming. "Oh, yes. I felt it. I felt it 100%." She paused for emphasis. "If you mean how utterly awful that was, then yes—even as someone who knows nothing about drums or jazz, I could tell that was a complete disaster."
Renly chuckled, nodding. "Really? So you did feel it."