The Greatest Showman - Step by Step
"If the strength is similar, then it's worth a shot—both the king and the successor must take their chances. But when the gap is too vast, even the most determined must sometimes concede. A true king knows when to step back. Fletcher, too, realized his desperation to mold the next Charlie Parker, pushing forward without compromise. And now Andrew refuses to compromise. So what? Because he has already succeeded."
A realization dawned upon Simmons.
"So, Fletcher thought—why not become a part of Andrew's greatness? Whether as a leader or a stepping stone, he would still be integral to something monumental. For someone like Fletcher, that was the dream. He never cared about the process, only the result."
Simmons stood motionless, whispering to himself as his thoughts aligned. It wasn't just today's events—every moment of the shoot made sense now. He nodded absently, murmuring unintelligible syllables as he refined his performance strategy.
Damien snapped his fingers in approval. "Andrew has achieved his dream, and so has Fletcher. Doesn't this make it a story about dreams?"
Dreams?
This story held countless interpretations, but dreams were the farthest thing from its core. Yes, both Andrew and Fletcher pursued their ambitions, but ultimately, this was a story about art—about perfection, about breaking limits. It was never wrapped in the comforting glow of idealistic dreams.
As Damien grinned smugly, Renly and Simmons exchanged glances, then turned away from him simultaneously. Without a word, they resumed their walk toward the stage, leaving Damien standing there, utterly confused.
"Hey! What's going on? Are we shooting again? Wait! Give me a second—I need to set up two more cameras! The angles were all wrong! Wait!"
The film "Murder/Father" explored tension on a psychological level, making direct physical clashes unnecessary. Instead, the challenge fell upon the director—how to convey the charged energy between Fletcher and Andrew through lighting, angles, and composition. This was true cinematic artistry.
From Fletcher's perspective, he loomed over Andrew; from Andrew's, he looked up at Fletcher. Later, their positions reversed, signaling a shift in power.
But beyond simple camera angles, the overall composition also played a role.
At first, Fletcher stood backlit, casting his shadow over Andrew, emphasizing his dominance. But as the lighting changed, Andrew's shadow stretched further, projected onto the back wall like a towering figure. Fletcher remained in place, but the camera pulled back just slightly, creating the illusion that Andrew had grown larger—more formidable.
These subtle yet powerful shifts illustrated why directing was an art.
Setting up the new camera angles took Damien and the crew nearly half an hour. By then, the break had disrupted the rhythm of the previous take, forcing both actors to recalibrate their emotions. They had been in perfect sync before the interruption, but now, they needed to start over.
The sound of drums echoed once more through Alice-Tate Hall.
Dense, powerful, and unrelenting, the beats poured out like a release, peeling away Andrew's frustration layer by layer. His drumming spoke volumes—it was not just sound but emotion, transforming him into something greater with every strike.
He was straightening his back. He was becoming a giant.
Fletcher stood there, stunned. He leaned closer to the drum set and shouted over the thunderous rhythm, "Andrew, what are you doing?"
"Wait for my cue," Andrew answered, his gaze level, unwavering.
It wasn't just his words—it was his entire presence. A shift had occurred.
Strength and weakness, control and submission—these opposing forces were reversing. Fletcher, once the dominant force, was losing his grip. His usual tactic—to pressure and provoke—was useless against Andrew's newfound composure.
Unless Fletcher interrupted the performance immediately, he was at Andrew's mercy.
Fletcher straightened his posture, determined to maintain his authority. He glared down at Andrew, attempting to regain his advantage. But the gap between them was shrinking, and for the first time, he felt an unsettling sense of unease.
A sensation of losing control.
A sudden impulse to lash out surged within him—but he couldn't. If he acted now, it would only prove his own weakness. This was the very trap he had set for Andrew, and now he was the one ensnared. He refused to admit defeat. The game wasn't over yet.
A thought struck him: the Four Hundred Strikes. Andrew couldn't possibly maintain control over such a challenge. Should he push the orchestra further? Drive Andrew to the brink, forcing him into collapse?
Fletcher stepped back, preparing to take control once more.
But Andrew was already gone.
Lost in the music, he played on, completely detached from Fletcher's machinations. His muscles tensed, yet his movements remained fluid, every motion instinctual. The familiarity of endless practice guided him now.
Yet this time, there was no fear.
His light brown eyes locked onto the drum set, unwavering. His left hand momentarily paused its jazz beat while his right hand struck the cymbal in rapid succession. The speed increased—200 beats, then 240, then 300.
His arms burned, but his focus only sharpened. He closed his eyes, channeling the rhythm of Buddy Rich, the melody echoing in his mind. His jaw moved in sync with the beat, his body both rigid and relaxed—a paradox of control and surrender.
Hold on.
Hold on!
His fingers gripped the drumsticks firmly yet lightly, using only his wrist and fingertips to propel the beats forward. A fine layer of dust lifted under the impact, swirling in the stage lights like smoke. His movements became a blur—so fast, so precise, they defied tracking.
At this moment, nothing else existed. Only Andrew. Only the drums.
Jim Neiman, watching from the wings, was transfixed. A layman to jazz, indifferent to percussion, yet even he could feel the raw power surging through the music. His stunned expression softened into quiet awe.
Fletcher, too, was frozen. His mouth opened slightly, searching for words, but nothing came. Language was useless here. The sheer force of Andrew's performance rendered everything else meaningless.
For the first time, Fletcher doubted himself. Had he underestimated Andrew's potential? Had he miscalculated?
A war waged in his mind—surrender or fight back? Accept or deny? His instincts screamed at him, but he remained motionless, locked in a silent battle with himself.
Meanwhile, Andrew's tempo climbed higher.
The cymbals rang out in a perfect cascade, each strike louder, clearer, more precise. His muscles tightened, but his control never wavered. The lines of his body, from shoulder to wrist, were taut yet fluid, a masterclass in discipline.
300 beats. 400 beats.
A perfect Four Hundred.
And he wasn't stopping.
The beats were relentless, pouring out like a force of nature, reverberating through the room, shaking every listener to their core.
Listen.
That's the sound of a soul breaking free.
Thump. Thump.