The Greatest Showman #1458 - Repeating the Same Mistakes
This time, Andy and Roy didn't interfere. They knew it was pointless. No matter how much they tried, they could never convince Renly to back down. Yet, deep down, they couldn't help but wonder: if Renly ever compromised—if he ever changed—would he still be Renly?
So, they chose to let go, though unease gnawed at them. Was this what it felt like to be a parent? To fear for a child's safety yet recognize that letting go was necessary? To oscillate between anxiety and pride, helplessly caught in contradiction?
Bah, what a ridiculous analogy.
What if your child was like Renly?
Both Andy and Roy shuddered at the thought. Then, catching the mirrored expressions on each other's faces, they instinctively recoiled in mock disgust, pretending they didn't know each other.
And yet, neither of them left. They remained on set, just in case. Just to make sure Renly wouldn't spiral again.
A short while later, Renly's friends began arriving, one after another, all following the same script: asking if Renly was on set, asking if he was recovering, asking if he was okay—then exhaling in relief.
Paul arrived first. Then Rooney. Even Jessica Chastain and Jake Gyllenhaal, who happened to be in New York, made their way over. Finally, Ryan.
By the time Ryan had completed the ritual questioning, the group exchanged glances and broke into laughter. The tension that had blanketed the set finally eased, if only slightly. Ryan, still bewildered, looked around in confusion.
"What? What's so funny?"
Paul, always the straightforward one, answered honestly. "Because every single one of us asked the same questions. Every. Single. One."
Ryan blinked, then chuckled. "Guess that makes sense."
Andy, curious, asked, "Didn't you come to New York for your directing project? Won't this delay your work?"
"The work will still be there," Ryan replied casually, then grinned. "Besides, hanging around Renly seems to open up more job opportunities. Just look at Jessica and Jake—if it were just me, there's no way I'd be in their orbit. Maybe I'll pitch my script while I'm here."
Jessica smirked. "Visiting Renly and landing gigs? He really is a lucky charm."
With Renly back to work, and no apparent crisis unfolding, the anxiety weighing on their chests gradually lifted. Their conversations lightened. Yet, instinctively, they kept their distance from the filming area, ensuring their chatter wouldn't disrupt the set's rhythm. They understood all too well the sanctity of the work environment.
As the crew wrapped up their final preparations, signaling the start of the day's shoot, the group slowly gravitated toward the entrance of the practice room.
It was a familiar setting. Too familiar.
Paul, Rooney, and Ryan exchanged knowing glances, their unease resurfacing.
Jessica and Jake, sensing something, cast questioning looks their way. Rooney merely mouthed: "This is it."
Understanding dawned in their eyes. Concern crept back into their expressions.
The battle against inner demons was unpredictable. No one knew when they would disappear, when they would resurface—or when they would explode.
The story of "Whiplash" had reached its next critical moment.
Andrew's drumming career had seen both breakthroughs and setbacks. By sheer chance, he had secured the core drummer position in Fletcher's band—only to have it ripped away when Ryan Connolly, the previous lead drummer, was welcomed back into the fold. Watching Ryan reclaim the spotlight was a crushing blow.
For the first time, Andrew stood up to Fletcher. For the first time, he fought back.
And he lost.
Furious and humiliated, Andrew's obsessive drive kicked into overdrive. If he couldn't hold his position, he would simply outwork everyone. He would reclaim what was his.
Fletcher had a method to his madness: he kept raising the difficulty of the set pieces, searching for a drummer who could deliver the impossible—400 hits per minute. Turner. Then Andrew. Then Ryan. He pushed them all to the brink, searching for the ultimate performer.
The key to this challenge? The double-stroke roll.
A staple of jazz drumming, the double-stroke roll required each hand to strike twice, forming a seamless rhythm. Normally, drummers maintained a beat between 80 to 200 hits per minute. Pushing past 300 was a feat. Hitting 400? That was legendary. Charlie Parker had pioneered it. Buddy Rich had perfected it. Few others even dared to try.
And now, Andrew had no choice but to master it.
Fletcher's chosen final track: "Caravan."
A jazz classic, "Caravan" varied in complexity depending on the performer. The original composition was relatively simple, with a focus on rhythmic variation. But Fletcher's arrangement was a monster—packed with offbeat syncopation, intricate ensemble work, and, most dauntingly, a solo demanding peak technical prowess. It wasn't just a test of skill. It was a trial by fire.
So Andrew locked himself in the practice room. And he played. And played. And played.
From a directorial perspective, the setup was familiar. If handled carelessly, the scene could feel repetitive. But this was where Renly's brilliance as an actor would be tested.
Andrew wasn't just practicing. He was unraveling. He was descending, step by step, into obsession. His desperation bled into every motion, every note, every drop of sweat. His paranoia, his fury, his defiance—they all simmered beneath the surface, slowly consuming him. This was not merely about hitting the right beats. This was about his war against Fletcher, against Ryan, against Turner. Against himself.
The performance needed to reflect that transformation.
Unlike "Black Swan," which relied on surreal elements to depict psychological breakdown, "Whiplash" had no such crutch. No dream sequences. No visual distortions. It all depended on raw, grounded intensity—on the way Renly carried Andrew's descent.
Same setting. Similar shots. But a different Andrew.
The entrance to the practice room was crowded, yet silent. No one dared disturb Renly's preparations.
And Renly? He was unfazed.
When he was immersed in a role, the world around him ceased to exist. In the void, it was just him and Andrew. They sat across from each other, idea meeting idea, their souls intertwining. Renly became Andrew. Andrew became Renly. Two identities, separate yet inseparable.
And so, the transformation began.
Andrew's frustration simmered. The light in his eyes flickered with an unrelenting fire. His clenched jaw, his tensed muscles—every fiber of his being radiated pent-up rage. He was restless. Unstable. Like a long-distance runner who had lost his rhythm, struggling to regain control but only falling further into chaos.
It wasn't something tangible, yet it was undeniable.
A presence. A force. A storm about to break.
And so, they watched.
And they waited.