บท 4: The first audition
The eager anticipation surged within Renly, igniting a sense of exhilaration. He instinctively clenched his fists, preventing the rush of excitement from veering too far from normal.
Though this was only his first Hollywood audition, the sensation of the wooden floor beneath his feet was far from unfamiliar. This Broadway stage slowly awakened the performance experiences he had accumulated over the past few years in London's West End. As his brain reached the pinnacle of alertness, it paradoxically settled into a state of calm. Every pore across his body opened up, greedily inhaling the air around him, blending himself with the stage.
"From left to right, line up in order," a voice echoed from beneath the stage, succinctly giving instructions. "After stating your name and age, await the next command. Understood?" The nearly tangible gaze and emotionless tone added tension to the atmosphere on the stage. It seemed that the other party was quite satisfied with this effect, as they immediately declared the beginning of the auditions. "The first person on the left, step forward."
The first actor began his self-introduction with a quivering voice. The nervous tension of the audition was amplified to the extreme within the expansive space of the Broadway theater. The omnipresent amplification and echo effects generated a sensation of ringing in the ears. The pressure on the spirit and the heaviness in the atmosphere pressed against his chest like a giant stone. The tightness of his vocal cords was palpable.
Yet, Renly paid no attention to the other actors' auditions, immersing himself instead in his own thoughts. He cleared his mind, sweeping away roles, auditions, and performances. He aimed for a state of calm concentration, allowing himself to become one with the stage.
"Next person."
Renly took a step forward, but instead of stopping immediately, he strode directly to the "T-point" in the center of the stage. This spot was not only the center of the stage but also the focal point of the spotlight. Planting his feet firmly, Renly began his self-introduction. "Good afternoon, I'm Renly Hall, twenty years old this year." Confident but not arrogant, concise without being redundant.
"Are you British?" a voice from the audience asked. Due to the dim lighting, the source of the voice wasn't clear. "Then, how's your American accent?"
"Which region?" Renly's composed response caused a small stir in the audience area.
Accent was a part of acting, but not an easy one to master. Anne Hathaway's British accent in "Becoming Jane" garnered scathing reviews from critics. Even actors with formal training didn't always manage to capture the subtle differences of accents from various regions. The difference between a Boston accent and a New York accent, for instance, was quite subtle. Renly's reply sounded professional and confident, though it might have come across as slightly conceited.
After a pause, the previous voice spoke again, "Texas, I guess." This wasn't a difficult question, considering that the Southern accent was quite distinctive.
"So, I'm auditioning for a Texan who voluntarily enlisted in the army?" The thick Southern accent in Renly's voice immediately captivated everyone present—not just for the accuracy of the accent but also because of the stark contrast with his previous standard London accent. It was hard to believe these two voices came from the same person. "I wonder if he's a soldier or an officer? My guess is he probably isn't a typical cowboy."
What's even more important is that Renly's words weren't mere improvisation. He noticed that each actor's audition role and content were different. The first actor was asked to perform a heart-wrenching cry, while the second actor was tasked with conveying fear. Therefore, he speculated that the casting director must have chosen roles based on each actor's appearance and age, and then proceeded with the auditions.
Just from the keyword "Texas," Renly vaguely outlined the character's image.
"Oh? Why do you say that?" A curious voice sounded from the other side, tinged with a hint of amusement. Turning to look, it was none other than Tom.
This was the first time Tom had spoken since the auditions began, and Renly could sense the envious and jealous gazes of the other competitors falling upon him. It stung a bit, burning with intensity.
"Because I'm not a typical cowboy," Renly's dignified response elicited a subdued laughter from the audience, and he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt that had slipped down again, adding, "At least I don't appear to be."
"Haha." Tom couldn't help but burst into laughter, and the Renly before him indeed had nothing to do with a cowboy—his lithe figure, slightly curled short hair, and faint smile. Elegance and rebellion, indulgence and restraint—the conflicting qualities melded naturally, as if he wouldn't be disheveled even if he were to end up on the streets. "I can't argue with that." After a slight pause, Tom continued, "You also don't look like a soldier, at least you shouldn't be on the Pacific battlefield."
This was Tom's way of poking fun at Renly's British identity. "The Pacific" focused on American soldiers.
The playful banter wasn't pointed, and it even carried a touch of humor. It drew a low chuckle from everyone around, but it disrupted Renly's audition rhythm, which wasn't good news for him. Nevertheless, Renly didn't appear flustered. He calmly said, "I only know that Hollywood doesn't allow homosexuals to play homosexuals, and doesn't allow black people to play black people. Yet, I never knew that it also prohibits Brits from playing Americans." Finishing, Renly's lips curved slightly upwards, his tone meaningful as he added, "Interesting."
Hollywood also has its dark history, and what Renly said was true, either having happened or currently happening. The laughter in the room suddenly grew sparse, and everyone's expressions bore some degree of awkwardness as they exchanged glances.
Tom couldn't help but rub his nose, hiding his own embarrassment. Steven, who was seated next to him, quickly joined in to lighten the mood, playfully exclaiming, "Ouch," which earned him a chorus of stifled laughter. Tom cast an exasperated glance, and Steven immediately turned his attention back to the stage, avoiding eye contact. "So, you don't look like a cowboy, nor an American, and not even a soldier. Why did you come for the audition?"
Amid the jest, Steven had set a trap for Renly, and the other standby actors behind him all revealed sympathetic expressions. It seemed that Renly's audition today was about to be ruined.
However, Renly unfolded his hands and shrugged innocently, "Because I'm an actor?" The slightly rising tone at the end seemed to seek affirmation from everyone, while also conveying his confusion and helplessness. With a soft sound, Tom slapped his thigh and burst into laughter directly. Seated beside him, Steven was left momentarily speechless by the outburst.
Tom soon realized his own indiscretion. Since it was too laborious for everyone around to stifle their chuckles, he quickly adjusted his lapels and regained his seriousness. "Why don't you perform a piece of Shakespeare?"
Tom's words eventually cracked the dam holding back the laughter, and a soft, muffled laughter escaped. After all, "The Pacific" and Shakespeare had nothing to do with each other. Tom's request clearly poked fun at the stereotypical impression that Hollywood has of British actors, always associated with drama and Shakespeare.
The development of the situation seemed to have veered off track. All signs were pointing towards an unfavorable direction for Renly. This audition had transformed into a comedy show.
But Renly didn't mind at all. On the contrary, he decided to seize this opportunity to showcase his abilities. Whether he had acting talent or not, this was the moment of truth!
Lowering his eyelids and adjusting his breathing, almost in the blink of an eye, he had selected the script, the character, and the scene, reawakening memories of lines buried deep in his mind.
Tom's smile gradually faded, and he turned his gaze towards the casting director, signaling that they could continue with the audition. Generally, the audition material was devised by the casting director, and Tom and Steven were here more to provide reference opinions.
Renly's exceptional accent shift from before had drawn Tom's slight attention and acted as a small interlude between him and Steven. But this was merely a minor ripple. In Hollywood, there were countless actors who could be considered talented or even geniuses. An extra one didn't matter much, and there was nothing worth making a fuss about. This ripple quickly subsided.
Tom opened his mouth, but before any sound could escape, he saw Steven slightly lean forward, his eyes behind the lenses becoming more focused than ever. A glimmer of intense interest could even be faintly perceived. This reflexively made Tom turn his head, looking back at the stage.
What he saw was that Renly, standing at the center of the stage, was undergoing a miraculous transformation. It wasn't a change of attire or a stretch of movement. It was a transformation of aura that defied verbal description.
Renly still stood tall and erect in place. Due to the height difference between the stage and the audience area, his towering figure was further emphasized. Yet, the slightly taut line of his shoulders, amidst the interplay of light and shadow, traced out a grand sadness. One could sense suppressed surges of emotions deep within, a sorrow so overwhelming it couldn't be contained. With minimal changes, the entire ambiance of the stage quietly settled.
Tom couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, uncrossing his legs and fixing his gaze onto the stage. Then, Renly lifted his head.
Stiffly, Renly took a stumbling step to the side, and an air of mourning surged between his brows and eyes. Soon, it was replaced by a surge of anger, like the sea surface before a storm. Eerily calm yet deeply unsettling, he uttered, "O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low?" The overwhelming sorrow in his tone was fragile, as if it would shatter at a touch. The grandeur of a stormy sea was unleashed within the elongated shadow, "Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils - shrunk to this little measure?"
His towering frame seemed on the brink of collapse, nearly crashing down. His knees weakened, and he dropped to one knee, defiantly supporting himself with both hands. "Fare thee well! I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, who else must be let blood, who else is rank" His words were imbued with a despairing yet heroic resentment. Faintly, one could hear the grinding of teeth in his speech, "If I myself, there is no hour so fit. As Caesar's death's hour, nor no instrument, of half that worth as those your swords made rich with the most noble blood of all this world!"
Abruptly, he lifted his head, his gaze sharp as it locked onto the audience. His searing gaze pierced through every spectator's eyes, its unwavering determination and resolute righteousness casting an indelible reflection. Every individual felt shamed and unworthy, averting their gazes.
Three lines of dialogue, just three lines, had woven the entire room's emotions into a single strand, firmly held in the grip of one individual—the unique figure standing at the center of the stage.
For an instant, silence reigned, broken only by the flutter of a bird's wings.
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