Carl Lund's gaze bore deeply into Renly before him, involuntary tears welling up in his eyes.
His composed and gentle voice drifted under the dim bar lights, dragging slowly like a kite soaring in the autumn sky—its trailing tail rustling amid the howling winds. The boundless expanse of the sky held no limits, no forests, oceans, or land in sight. The disappearing horizon enlarged the world to infinite proportions, while the kite continued to soar alone, forlorn and mournful.
In an instant, the string of the kite he held snapped. With a rush of sound, before he could even react, the tiny kite was swallowed by vast swaths of blue, disappearing without a trace.
Emotions of the utmost loneliness, bewilderment, desolation, and world-weariness struck him fiercely, offering no time or space for a response. The weight of despair pressed heavily on his heart, as if in freefall. Struggling proved futile—no support could be grasped. One could only plummet infinitely, sinking into nothingness.
Carl sat there, staring blankly at Renly, his gaze reflecting desperation and fragility. It was as if a drowning person was desperately calling for help. This emotion felt too genuine, too sincere, and it awakened memories deep within Renly. Yet, he was powerless; he couldn't help everyone, sometimes not even himself.
Renly turned away, observing the despair and vulnerability in the old vagabond's eyes. It was like someone drowning, struggling to keep afloat. This feeling was so real, so earnest, and it stirred something within Renly. But he was helpless; he couldn't possibly assist every person. Sometimes, he couldn't even help himself.
He redirected his gaze, raising the beer bottle and taking a long sip. The cold sensation helped him regain some clarity. He was no longer Chu Jiashu; he wasn't the Chu Jiashu confined to a sickbed, unable to fly once more.
As their gazes disconnected, Carl caught a glimpse of the struggle in Renly's profound eyes—a fleeting moment that imprinted itself in Carl's mind.
Carl swiftly turned away, downing the rest of his beer in one gulp. He hastily wiped the warmth from his eyes. His emotions continued to surge, but his rationality gradually returned.
They had all misjudged—him, Tony Kaye, and even Woody Allen.
Initially, he had merely thought of the young man before him as an interesting actor.
The image presented in "Buried" and "The Pacific" diverged greatly from the reality, to the extent that he hadn't recognized him at first glance. If not for Woody's confirming hint, he might have missed him entirely.
The subtle shifts in his demeanor revealed Renly's solid acting foundation and delicate control over his craft. For a twenty-one-year-old, this was truly remarkable. If that were the case, no matter how the media praised him, it wouldn't be an exaggeration.
Hence, both he and Tony became intrigued by Renly. This was why he had approached for a conversation.
However, he hadn't expected that beneath the youthful, exuberant, gentlemanly exterior lay a soul that had seen through the vicissitudes of the world. That passage from Edgar Allan Poe's writing, shifting amidst his intonation, effortlessly struck at the vulnerability deep within him. It hit him hard, one blow after another.
The fragility hidden within, imbued with solitude and desolation, was like an intangible mist, entwining deep within the soul, never fading.
Aside from Renly, Carl couldn't conceive of a more fitting actor to play the lead role in his script.
To be more accurate, they had initially considered another option: Adrian Brody.
As the youngest Oscar Best Actor winner in film history, since "The Pianist", his career had hit a rut. But it was undeniable that Adrian possessed a calm, melancholic, and desolate quality that aligned well with what they were seeking for the male protagonist.
However, Tony always felt that Adrian's demeanor was excessively gloomy, lacking a certain element. It was like New York's winter, similar to London but ultimately different.
Carl found it incomprehensible. Because Tony's description was unclear; that "element" was an elusive intuition at best. As a screenwriter, Carl couldn't understand Tony's sentiments. He even felt that Tony was being unreasonable, much like how artists often insisted, "It just doesn't feel right."
Yet today, Carl finally understood.
Within Renly, there was a demeanor of detachment and aloofness. Everything was tranquil, composed, and reserved. At first glance, there seemed to be no discernible difference, just like when they first met. But upon closer examination, one could quietly glimpse the fragility that enshrouded his soul.
Externally, Renly and Adrian Brody exuded drastically different vibes. Adrian was like an unending rainy day—thin and melancholic. Renly, on the other hand, emitted the scent of sunlight; like the lazy sunshine of an early summer afternoon—gentle yet not glaring.
However, on closer examination, Adrian's melancholy remained surface-level; his demeanor stayed fixed at a certain point, unable to dig deeper. Yet within Renly, there was boundless potential, like an epic masterpiece that compelled one to keep turning the pages.
This led Carl to envision how Renly would portray the male lead in his mind—an image akin to sunlight piercing through New York's haze. Everyone assumed it was warm sunlight, yet when touched, it felt piercingly cold. Wrapped in hope was a despair that tasted bitter, rendering one voiceless.
Now Carl finally understood why Woody had vetoed Adrian and specifically recommended Renly. Because Renly was the perfect, the only choice.
What intrigued Carl most was this: Renly was an outstanding actor, perhaps even a remarkable one. The accolades from the Emmy Awards and Sundance Film Festival were just the tip of the iceberg. With Renly interpreting the script, what kind of sparks would be ignited?
Leaving that aside, what was worth pondering was how Woody managed to capture this quality within Renly.
Ordinarily, Renly was like a clear pool, tranquil and chilly. Gazing in, one couldn't fathom its depth. In "The Pacific" and "Buried", Renly's performances hadn't showcased this profound and intricate demeanor. So why was Woody so resolutely convinced that Renly was the right choice?
Carl suddenly became curious: what would Renly's live performance be like? What kind of music would Renly create?
Ahem. Carl cleared his throat, rallying himself, and looked back at Renly. "Do you also like Edgar Allan Poe?"
"No, I don't." Renly's unexpected response came with a shake of his head. "If I had to choose, I'd pick Arthur Rimbaud."
Carl was somewhat surprised, but upon reflection, he found his own understanding. He nodded with a gentle laugh. "Rimbaud seems to be like the vibrant golden sunlight of summer and the blossoming flowers, while Poe is akin to London's winter—eternally devoid of light."
"At least London's soul is warm." Renly's reply caused Carl to pause. After studying Renly for a moment, a warm smile flickered in Carl's eyes, and he nodded in agreement. "Perhaps, that's the difference between London and New York."
Renly shrugged noncommittally.
Carl adjusted his posture, facing Renly. "I want to extend a sincere invitation, inviting you to participate in a project."
Seeing Renly's attentive gaze, Carl organized his words and spoke earnestly, "This is a relatively somber drama. It presents the perspective of a substitute teacher, recounting a story about education—not the "Dead Poets Society" type. More about individuals discovering themselves, confronting themselves, and reconnecting with society and their own selves."
Carl noticed a playful smile tugging at Renly's lips. He realized that "Dead Poets Society" was indeed a story of self-discovery, self-preservation, and self-embrace. This realization brought a smile to Carl's face.
He thought it over again, "What I want to portray is the influence of families and society on education. You see, from a teacher's standpoint, they witness fully-formed students, each student reflecting their family, class, culture, and racial backgrounds. Teachers need to impart not only knowledge but also morals and perspectives."
This time, Carl's words flowed smoothly. He became absorbed in his own thoughts, speaking tirelessly, his features marked by a persisting melancholy and sorrow. Renly speculated that perhaps Carl had shared experiences, from the past or the present, facing similar predicaments.
"The issue is, if families and society don't give education enough attention, then what teachers can offer students is quite limited. So, I've conceptualized a character—a teacher who is the child of teachers, possibly a father figure. He inevitably carries the influence of his upbringing, yet now he needs to detach from it and offer students more hope."
Carl suddenly halted, looking up to Renly with utmost seriousness. "I believe that, aside from you, no one else is better suited for this teacher role. You're the perfect choice."
Looking at the sincerity and earnestness in Carl's eyes, radiating with an unyielding fervor, Renly's lips curled into a warm smile. He replied directly yet politely, "Sir, you haven't introduced yourself yet."