The Greatest Showman #945 – Invitation Letter

Standing by the gate, through the wide lattice windows, one could view the entire garden: the gurgling marble fountain, the angel statue playing the harp, and two orioles perched on the statue's arms, chirping and singing. Gardeners were diligently tending to the weeds that had begun to overtake the lawn after summer. The old bluestone driveway, now moss-covered, showed weeds stubbornly finding spaces between the stones.

A villa is not quite a manor, after all. The small garden is visible in its entirety, every detail easy to observe, and the street-facing road is just as visible. Even in Bayswater, an area with relatively affordable housing, London remains one of the most expensive cities in the world.

For the poor nobility, a villa represents the pinnacle of their wealth.

In London, for the upper class, living in the city is a mark of dignity and pride. Even if their residence is a modest apartment with no special amenities—no separate dressing room, no distinct bathroom, no small garden—"it's still better than living in the country." At least, they can attend high-society dinners and events, staying in the spotlight.

The Halls were fortunate to still own their villa, with eight master bedrooms and two living rooms. It wasn't luxurious, but it maintained a semblance of decency.

Philip Demba walked down the stairs with measured, deliberate steps. His footsteps were inaudible on the low-key yet elegant Turkish red carpet. His neatly pressed gray suit, tailored to perfection, retained its structured fit even in the early summer heat, unaffected by the turmoil of the season.

Opening the door with grace, it creaked—a sound that spoke of the house's history and heritage. Philip smiled warmly at the postman who greeted him.

"Good morning, sir. Still punctual as ever," the postman said with a broad smile, rummaging through his bag to hand Philip the day's mail. "Hope you have a good day."

Philip nodded, closed the door gently, and, standing in the vestibule, began to sort through the letters. He quickly discarded junk mail and organized the remaining letters: work and financial correspondence were directed to the study, while personal letters were to be delivered to the respective family members.

Sorting newspapers and mail had been Philip's routine for over forty years, a task he had long mastered. It was a little mundane, but he performed it with unwavering focus.

His hands paused as he felt the blue envelope in his grasp. At first glance, it appeared to be another piece of spam—an advertisement from the Almeida Theatre.

In London, a city brimming with theatres, operas, and ballet performances, such letters were common. They could be divided into two categories: mass advertisements promoting performances and exclusive communications sent to theatre members, detailing upcoming plays.

Philip assumed it was the former, as the Halls were not members of the Almeida Theatre.

The Almeida Theatre was well-known, yet after a change in management, it had adopted a bold approach, often promoting fresh, contemporary, and unique works. While this kept the theatre vibrant, it also alienated the traditional elite. The aristocrats, who prided themselves on their cultural sophistication, often mocked the new, avant-garde productions of the Almeida Theatre, even if they conceded that the repertoire itself was still of a certain artistic caliber.

But Philip hesitated as he examined the envelope. The quality of the paper felt different—more refined. It was a subtle detail that only someone with years of experience, like Philip, could notice.

He carefully opened the envelope, revealing an official invitation, not a promotional flyer. It was a formal invitation from the Almeida Theatre.

The invitation read:

"On May 18, the Almeida Theatre will host the premiere of the new play Les Miserables. The show will be split into two halves. The opening party for the first half begins at 2:30 PM, with the performance starting at 3:00 PM. The second half's opening party is at 8:15 PM, and the performance begins at 8:30 PM. The entire show will last six hours."

Following the invitation was a booklet detailing the production team, creative inspirations, and most importantly, the cast list—first and second lineups. For theatre enthusiasts, the cast was always a focal point. Audiences who had seen classic performances before often returned to witness how different actors interpreted the same roles.

The cast list would spark discussions and comparisons, as theatregoers examined the creativity of both seasoned veterans and fresh faces.

To watch a play was more than just to see the performance; it was about understanding the production's history, the creative minds behind it, and even the expectations shared among the audience. The social events surrounding the play—the opening and closing parties—were just as important as the play itself, as they showcased the viewer's social standing and cultural education.

"Les Miserables" was a special production in this context. Despite being a staple in London's West End, it had become somewhat of a tourist attraction, criticized by seasoned theatre lovers for its commercialization. Yet now, the Almeida Theatre was daring to bring it back—this time, in a bold six-hour format.

Suddenly, a memory clicked in Philip's mind.

In early March, Renly, recently crowned as the youngest-ever Oscar winner, had quietly returned to London. Having already achieved monumental success, Renly announced that he would focus on theatre for the time being, setting aside film projects to hone his craft. This choice had sparked much discussion among the media and his fans. What if Renly was involved in this new Les Miserables production?