The Greatest Showman #955 - Grand Opening

The Almeida Theater was enveloped in pitch darkness; not even a hand could be stretched out in the thick gloom. A slow, palpable silence spread across the theater. The faint sounds of hushed breathing and muted conversations added to the stillness, creating an almost oppressive sense of anticipation, as if the air itself was holding its breath, awaiting something. Time seemed to hold its ground, like the calm before an impending eruption.

A crisp sound pierced the silence. A row of lights flickered on behind the stage, dim and hazy, casting an off-white curtain across the center. The curtain stretched across the stage, near the auditorium, empty and devoid of objects, actors, or even clear lighting. Only the faint outline of the stage was visible, softened by the ghostly glow.

The murmurs of the audience grew louder for a brief moment, then just as quickly fell silent. The moment they had been waiting for had arrived—there was movement on stage.

A figure emerged from the back of the stage, walking with a deliberate, heavy, and resolute pace from left to right. The weak light from behind projected his silhouette onto the off-white curtain. His face was obscured, but his outline grew clearer with every step, tall and imposing. Each stride made him appear more magnificent, as if he could bear the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

With no clear details, just the figure's imposing presence and the resolute echo of his footsteps, the audience could sense the grandeur and the weight of the story that was about to unfold. In mere moments, the figure established a sense of epic struggle and dignity, a prelude to the grandeur of Les Miserables.

The figure's movement was accompanied by a faint, ethereal humming—"Hum... hum hum... hum... hum hum..."—a tune devoid of lyrics but full of emotional charge. The sound seemed to resonate through the theater, evoking a spiritual quality, like the faint echoes of a hymn, stirring the audience's emotions, as if calling to the deepest recesses of their souls.

Arthur Hall, sitting in his private box, shifted slightly in his seat. From his elevated position, he had a clear view of the stage, unobstructed even by the upper levels. He could feel the figure's presence expand across the space, the momentum of the character's strides reverberating through the theater.

"This song…" Arthur murmured, recognizing the familiar melody.

It was the stirring finale of Les Miserables' Queen version: Do-You-Hear-People-Sing. A call to action, a rallying cry for the oppressed, urging them to rise up and fight for freedom and justice. The martyrs who had died sang the song, empowering the people to break their chains and bring about a new dawn.

Now, Renly's rendition of Les Miserables infused this powerful melody into the opening scene, not yet in its full form but in fragmented hums. Yet even with just a few notes, the audience could feel the call to arms, the spirit of revolution and defiance.

As the figure moved, the hum evolved, gradually turning into the lyrics: "Did you hear people singing, the dark night and the valley, the singing echoed..." His voice was not loud, nor forceful. Instead, it was soft and contemplative, almost like a gentle whistle, each note floating delicately in the air. The lyrics were fragmented, but they were enough to capture the attention and stir the imagination of the audience, pulling them deeper into the world of Les Miserables.

This was the power of live theater—without elaborate sets or excess props, the stage and the actor's presence alone sparked the audience's imagination. The Paris described in Victor Hugo's novel emerged in their minds, vivid and alive, as they pictured the poverty-stricken streets and the people struggling for survival.

As Arthur leaned forward, he knew the voice belonged to Renly. Even though they had yet to see Renly's face, his dramatic presence was unmistakable. In mere seconds, Renly had immersed himself in the role, delivering a performance that was intense and magnetic, and he hadn't even spoken a line.

The humming grew softer, then the man's voice joined in, singing with quiet passion: "This song belongs to those who strive to climb to the light, to the suffering people above the earth. The flame of hope will never be extinguished, and even the darkest night will eventually pass away. The sun will rise!"

The footsteps ceased. The figure stood tall behind the curtain, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, like a symbol of defiance against the dark chaos. The sound died down, and the theater fell into an absolute stillness. Not even the sound of breathing could be heard.

Then, without warning, the figure's projection exploded in brightness as he opened his arms wide. A burst of cream-colored light filled the stage, like the first rays of dawn piercing the darkness. But just as quickly, the light faded, and the figure continued to move, leaping and tumbling, charging across the stage with energy and force. The stage seemed to shake under the impact of each movement, punctuated by a deafening crash and the sound of gunfire—an immediate, seamless transition into the chaotic world of Les Miserables.

The figure reappeared, holding a long loaf of bread. On the opposite side of the stage, an elderly woman and seven young, ragged children appeared. They seemed to chase after him, hungry and desperate. The figure threw the loaf of bread toward them, but it soared too high and landed with a heavy thud, out of reach.

Soon after, the shopkeeper overtook him, beating him mercilessly with a stick. The man collapsed to the ground, curling into a ball, trying to shield himself from the blows.

Everything played out like a shadow puppet show projected onto the curtain. The action flowed smoothly, without breaking the rhythm of the story.

Law enforcement officers soon appeared, carrying batons, joining in the assault. They dragged the unconscious man off the stage. Just as the audience thought the opening had concluded, the lights dimmed, only to brighten again. A group of twenty to thirty actors flooded the stage, immediately filling the space.

Some were begging by the roadside, others were drunk or hawking wares, while some rummaged through garbage in search of scraps. The sounds of French and English filled the air, the harsh and vulgar language creating a sense of urban decay.

The law enforcement officers continued their march across the stage, parading the captured man like a trophy. The people around them seemed numb to the spectacle, continuing their own struggles without a second glance.

The man, still not fully visible, was dragged into the shadows by the officers. His ragged hair fell over his face, and his torn clothes barely clung to his body, creating an indistinct figure.

The bard-like humming returned, echoing softly from an unseen source, as the man disappeared into the darkness.

Les Miserables had officially begun!

In this version, the plot focused on the social background of Paris during the time period. Jean Valjean's theft of bread, the tragedy that followed, and the public's apathy were presented with stark clarity. The Almeida Theatre's take on the story was brief yet powerful, creating a stunning visual and auditory experience in less than five minutes.

Alistair Smith raised an eyebrow, intrigued by what he had witnessed.

The performance was a mix of tradition and innovation. The use of shadow puppets to convey the emotional intensity of the narrative was clever, and the tension created by the actors was palpable. But it was John Codd's brilliant direction that truly elevated the production, pushing the dramatic tension to its peak.

Renly Hall, the young, dynamic actor, had captured the audience's attention with his first appearance, leaving them eager to see how the rest of the production would unfold.

The opening had been a pleasant surprise—subtle but powerful. It gave just enough to pique curiosity while hinting at the grand ambition of the entire production.

Everyone wondered how the Almeida Theater would continue to build on this innovative approach. Despite the familiar storyline, they had already demonstrated a unique perspective that kept the audience engaged and craving more.

Even Alistair, the seasoned critic, was leaning in—what else could be in store?