The Greatest Showman#1478 - new realm
It was the collision of two titanic performances—Renly and Simmons, locked in a battle of artistry, fueling each other to greater heights. The chemistry between them crackled, electrifying the air, seamlessly integrating with the jazz band's pulse. The performance transcended mere acting; it was an unfiltered expression of opposition and collaboration, a vivid spectacle of tension and harmony.
Renly's immersive portrayal did not merely chart a musician's breakthrough; it embodied the chaos, madness, and violent pursuit of perfection. Every strike of the drum resonated with heart-pounding intensity.
And then, there was the drumming itself.
Four hundred hits?
No, not quite.
Renly had trained for less than two months, making four hundred hits an impossible feat. Yet, he had executed three hundred and twenty—each one precise, unwavering, relentless.
Even for a seasoned drummer, such control over tempo and rhythm was an arduous task. But Renly delivered flawlessly. Each strike was bold, powerful, and charged with raw emotion. His beats breathed new life into the music, sketching golden notes in the air, dazzling and brilliant.
The result? A performance of sheer, unadulterated brilliance.
It was not a mere sequence of rehearsed movements. It was not about keeping time or playing notes. The music coursed through him, fusing seamlessly with the professional musicians on stage. It was exhilarating, a symphony of pure energy.
Even having witnessed it firsthand, it felt surreal—too perfect, too overwhelming, too terrifying.
So, who had truly commanded the stage?
Was it Renly Hall, or was it Andrew Neiman?
The thought took root, creeping into consciousness like ink dispersing in water. Slowly, inevitably, it spread, clouding the boundary between reality and illusion.
The performance had blurred the lines. Even after the cameras stopped rolling, even beyond the fourth wall, the distinction between Renly and Andrew remained elusive. Time and space had folded into themselves, leaving reality adrift in the performance's wake.
The highest level of acting is when fantasy and reality become indistinguishable.
Tonight, those present—extras, crew members, even the jazz musicians—experienced that phenomenon firsthand. Silence reigned, not just in awe, but in realization. The implications were unsettling. It was like waking up inside a dream with no means of escape. A "Truman Show" revelation—dizzying, disorienting, terrifying.
Can acting truly reach such a level?
Even Renly himself was caught in the storm. He had surrendered completely—body, mind, and soul—breaking free of constraints, immersing himself in the role without inhibition. He wasn't merely portraying Andrew; he was Andrew.
And yet, he was still Renly.
Gone was the rigid dichotomy between method acting and expressive acting. In this moment, performance became something more—an instinct, an intrinsic force, a raw, unfiltered expression. Like Andrew returning to the drums, Renly had returned to acting's purest form. It was complicated, yet profoundly simple.
The boundary between self and character had become at once distinct and nonexistent.
He was Chu Jiashu.
He was Renly.
He was Andrew.
When he sat behind the drum kit, when he gripped the drumsticks, when his entire being sank into the rhythm—he became that young man. That talented yet insecure, stubborn boy. The boy who was beaten down, humiliated, but who finally erupted in a symphony of defiance. The boy who, with bloodstained hands, had killed his former self and emerged reborn.
He was Andrew.
There was no conscious effort, no calculated technique—just pure instinct. A breakthrough had been made, a barrier shattered. Everything had changed. And yet, nothing had changed at all.
Zen teaches that at first, mountains are mountains, and waters are waters. With enlightenment, mountains are no longer mountains, and waters are no longer waters. But upon true realization, mountains return to being mountains, and waters return to being waters.
Acting, at its core, is the embodiment of emotions and states of being—an innate ability, an artistic instinct. Everyone acts in their daily lives; lying is a performance, interactions are performances. Training refines and polishes this instinct, sharpening it into a craft. Method acting and expressive acting serve as tools, guiding actors forward.
But the ultimate evolution of performance is to discard all frameworks—to strip away the technicalities, the rules, and return to pure essence. To reflect a character's soul, to let the performance flow unimpeded from within.
Tonight, Andrew had transformed, and Renly had ascended.
Sitting motionless, Renly closed his eyes, replaying the performance in his mind. He had lost himself in the moment, unburdened by control or calculation. It had felt effortless—organic, inevitable.
And yet, if he were to attempt it again now, he would falter. The moment had passed. That perfect synthesis of self and role could not be replicated. Every performance is unique, unrepeatable.
The realization was exhilarating.
He finally understood.
Acting was truly fun.
Andrew had shattered his demons to achieve greatness as a drummer; Renly had rediscovered his passion, stepping into an entirely new realm as an actor. Their journeys, though different, were intertwined in ways words could not fully capture.
Even blockbuster roles like "Fast and Furious 5" and "Edge of Tomorrow" had contributed to his growth. Every setback, every triumph, every painful, joyful moment—all of it had led him here.
He was grateful for the struggles; they had taught him humility.
He was grateful for the blessings; they had shown him beauty.
A small smile curled at the corner of his lips—light, effortless, happy.
Eyes still closed, he could hear the faint echo of drums in his mind. Buddy Rich's rhythms pulsed through his veins, and his fingertips tapped along instinctively, feeling an invisible thread connecting him to the instrument. Subtle, but unmistakable. Profound, yet beautifully simple.
At its core, art is about stripping away distractions and returning to the essence of creation. That is where true joy lies.
A thought surfaced, gentle yet insistent:
Perhaps it was time to make another album.
Not immediately. But soon.
A delightful, unexpected gift.
For when the music flows, there are some things—even darkness cannot take away.