SPOILER ALERT: This article discusses the “Ren Faire” finale, now streaming on Max.
Long live the king. In his search for a worthy heir to buy out his stake in the Texas Renaissance Festival, theme park founder George Coulam has put his subordinates through some dark ages. But, after weighing his options, he’s finally figured out the right person to be in charge: himself.
“None of us ever really thought that there would be someone that would take over,” says Lance Oppenheim, director and executive producer of “Ren Faire.” “There’s no world in which George could ever give it up.”
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The finale of the HBO docuseries sees the octogenarian rejecting yet another multi-million-dollar offer to purchase his festival, instead electing to maintain status quo as ruler of his kingdom. In fact, everyone seems to end up close to where they were at the start of the story: a Möbius strip conclusion that sees the prospective heirs trapped in the same long game hoping to take over the fair.
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Oppenheim reconnected with Coulam in the months ahead of the series premiere; the punishing purgatorial nature of the situation seems to have been lost on him — at least that’s what Coulam claimed.
“He was like, ‘Ah, I had no idea that I was causing so much anxiety for you guys,’” Oppenheim says, intently scrolling through his camera roll. “He’s a trickster, but he’s also of advanced age. It’s hard to know when he’s being mischievous intentionally or just impulsively.”
Oppenheim then turns his phone, ready to press play on a video. He’s pulled up a recording from an evening in April, when he revisited Todd Mission, Texas to screen the first episode of “Ren Faire” for his subjects. Coulam is seen in his house, eyes intently glued to the television.
Bizarrely, Louie Migliaccio is at the screening too, watching the episode over Coulam’s shoulder. The kettle corn magnate had not one, but two bids to purchase the festival get abruptly shut down over the course of the series; yet, there he is inside Coulam’s living room, watching his defeat play out next to the man responsible for it.
“Louie wanted to be with George when he saw it,” Oppenheim says. “George was sort of like, ‘Why are you here?’ But Louie brought his whole family to the screening.”
Oppenheim then presses play on the video. The group is watching an early sequence in which Coulam goes on a concentrated soliloquy about a Swiss company that specializes in assisted suicide, voicing his intention to pay them to end his own life when the time comes.
Filming Coulam’s reaction to the episode, Oppenheim notices something and zooms in: the festival owner is quietly mouthing along to his speech, word by word. Then, a big grin. Evidently, this wasn’t a new lecture; Coulam probably gets a kick out of giving it to lots of people in his life.
“He has an awareness — a comedic timing — of saying certain things that he said many times before,” Oppenheim says. “He’s a troll at the end of the day, in the original sense. He likes being the guy that’s moving pieces on the chessboard.”
The filmmaker then closes the video and shifts to his audio recordings. He finds a clip of Coulam giving his thoughts after the screening.
“It was great. People will like it because it’s different,” Coulam says. Asked whether he enjoyed being filmed, he gives a sheepish chuckle. “It was kind of half-and-half. Sometimes a little bit fun. But sometimes not so much.”
Oppenheim goes on to describe how Coulam would often criticize the documentary crew during production, fervently suggesting that they invest in “higher quality equipment” and sometimes refusing to stay still long enough to get situated in a composed image. He would even transform into a bit of a film director himself from time to time.
“When he’s getting a manicure, the nail technician looked at me to say something while George was talking. He snapped at her: ‘Excuse me, Miss. Don’t talk to them. You talk to me,’” Oppenheim says. “A lot of the time there was this unpredictability and chaos. And he’d always say the same thing: ‘Get your ugly ass cameraman in and shut up and sit down and let’s get going.’”
Oppenheim recalls these outbursts with a lingering bewilderment, but also a tinge of affection.
“To me, he’s a very lonely person who can only get so much out of controlling people. The only real comfort he has is in inanimate objects and books,” Oppenheim says. “Sure, there’s this lecherous dimension to him, but it all functions out of the same place. You see roots of his discontent.”
Coulam’s tyranny comes to a head early in the finale when he meets with Jeffrey Baldwin, his decades-loyal entertainment director, and unceremoniously fires him. The reason is vague yet plain: “You piss me off.”
It’s an absolute knife twist for Baldwin, who had just been celebrating another successful season with his fellow employees. In an earlier scene, riding the thrill of living his dream job, Baldwin gives an emotionally intense reprisal of his most treasured community theater role. With the camera filming in the passenger seat, Baldwin queues up the ballad “Who I’d Be” from “Shrek the Musical” and begins to sing along. Soulfully reciting the opening lyrics of “I guess I’d be a hero, with sword and armor clashing,” Baldwin seems to be projecting his own lifelong ambitions to lead the Renaissance festival into his delicate serenade.
“He wanted to show us how he detoxes from the day. He wanted to play it,” Oppenheim says of the “Shrek” interlude. “I’m sure some people will be like, ‘Maybe the director asked him to do this.’ But there are so many moments in this that are just unplanned. I couldn’t have predicted it.”
Oppenheim calls Baldwin “the heart of the show” and shares that he was the first employee to fully welcome the documentary production into his life. What’s more, Baldwin introduced the producers to Coulam and vouched for their access. The finale ends with Baldwin back in the fold of the festival after begging to be rehired and dutifully accepting a demotion. It’s a fate that Oppenheim seems to lament.
“With Jeff, I was always like, ‘Bro, you’re better than this place.’ But to his credit, he was looking for other jobs,” Oppenheim says. “Jeff being so humble and so loyal — over time, George doesn’t need it. He gets bored of it. He wants someone who will challenge him, just so he can destroy them. There is no winning with Jeff because you win every day.”
The adversary that Coulam creates for himself is Darla Smith, a former elephant trainer turned general manager. Much of the finale follows Smith negotiating an appropriate deal for Coulam to cash out on the festival; her efforts are repudiated and belittled by her boss. In the final title cards, it is revealed that Smith was ultimately fired by Coulam.
“She’s probably the only person in the entire show who really attempts to defend herself against George, rather than just accepting his wrath,” Oppenheim says.
Smith’s steadfast sense of dignity also extended to how she approached the docuseries itself. Oppenheim says that she initially expressed skepticism toward the production. Her ultimate fear: “Please don’t make this ‘Tiger King.’”
“She smartly was like, ‘I don’t know if it’s beneficial for my standing politically here to be in this,’” Oppenheim says. “Once she realized that things were changing around her and that it was hard to know what would happen, she said, ‘I’m ready to do this. Let’s talk about what it’s like to be here.’”
After driving away his primary dealmaker, Coulam still sits on his throne. As it stands, the Texas Renaissance Festival is currently planning to celebrate its 50th anniversary in the coming fall season. But at 86 years old, Coulam, a self-professed “sexually active Caucasian male entrepreneur,” is still all but certainly nearing the end of his reign. After the king goes, what will happen to his kingdom?
“There are shareholders, so the question would be if the fair could be run democratically. But there’s also a world in which it just ceases to exist, which I think is a very real possibility,” Oppenheim says. “I could see it getting sold and turned into malls or suburban tract homes. The reality is Houston is close and property values are increasing. The land is probably the most valuable piece of the whole thing. I hope this doesn’t happen.”
Many of the festival’s denizens already seem to be living with anxiety about its long-term future. While filming the docuseries, Oppenheim noted a recurring hope among employees that his Hollywood production could emerge as a miracle savior.
“Certain people would be like, ‘Can you take the rest of the budget of the show and just buy the fair?’ We definitely don’t have enough money to do that,” Oppenheim says. “But hey, maybe if HBO gives us a Season 2 — and 3 and 4 and 5 — maybe HBO could be the true owners.”
He trails off. Then, a shrug: “I mean, I doubt it.”
