The Greatest Showman - Chapter 966: Can't Wait

In the afternoon, the West End of London bustled with activity. Cars zipped past, and waves of pedestrians flowed near Oxford Street, occasionally parting as tourists flocked to afternoon performances held three times a week. Yet, even with this energy, the absence of nighttime's dazzling neon lights left an impression of something missing.

Today was different.

The entrance of the Almeida Theatre was alive with energy, vibrant and packed to capacity—

Reporters filled every available space, creating an almost impenetrable barrier. More than thirty journalists crowded near the theater's entrance, a number too large for the gates to accommodate. They formed orderly lines, stretching out along the street, awaiting anyone who emerged from the venue.

Such a scene was rare in the West End.

Unlike movie premieres, theater opening nights do not grant reporters priority access, nor do actors walk a red carpet or pose for cameras. Interviews are limited to audience members. Traditionally, drama critics write their reviews for newspapers or online columns without engaging in interviews.

Over time, covering a theater premiere became routine for journalists: capture footage of the arriving audience, gather impressions from the creative team backstage, and publish critics' reviews. It was straightforward work, often delegated to interns. Even for major productions, no more than twenty reporters would typically be present before the show began—most would leave shortly after.

But today was different.

This afternoon, at least seventy reporters had gathered—perhaps more. They waited outside the theater for three hours, showing no signs of leaving. Not even Helen Mirren's triumphant return to the West End after winning an Oscar had garnered such a spectacle.

Onlookers filled every available space along the street. Not just at the Almeida, but at surrounding theaters as well. At least two hundred people packed the nearby blocks. Traffic slowed to a crawl as vehicles carefully navigated the congested sidewalks.

Why? Because they couldn't get tickets.

Half of the assembled crowd clutched signs, hoping for a last-minute entry. The other half came solely for Renly Hall, eager for a fleeting glimpse of him outside the theater. Such fervent devotion was unheard of in the West End. London's theater scene thrives on consistency—if one misses a show today, another performance awaits tomorrow. The Almeida Theatre's play would run for three months. Yet, even on premiere night, this kind of frenzy was unprecedented.

It was a testament to Renly's magnetism.

Since returning to the UK, he had vanished from public life. For ten weeks, he immersed himself in rehearsals, dedicating himself fully to the craft of theater. No news, no interviews—nothing.

Even after his historic Oscar win, Renly declined all interview requests. He turned down over 133 invitations from major media outlets, including The New York Times, Time, The Times, Us Weekly, People, The Hollywood Reporter, Vanity Fair, The Washington Post, and The New Yorker. Yet, the press did not retaliate. No blacklisting, no backlash. Silence.

Then, today happened.

The chaotic scene at the Almeida Theatre confirmed what many suspected: Renly's popularity had not waned—it had only grown stronger. His unwavering dedication had earned him even more respect within the industry.

And this was before Les Misérables had even received its first reviews. If word-of-mouth exploded, then—

The crowd surged forward, anticipation reaching its peak as movement stirred inside the theater.

A wave of noise, first a ripple, then a roar, spilled onto the street.

Marc Lacante and his friends were not the first to exit. They found themselves caught in a thick stream of people, their pace slowed by the dense throng ahead. But they didn't mind. They were still reliving the performance, their excitement overflowing in animated conversations.

As they stepped outside, a reporter eagerly thrust a microphone forward. "Excuse me! How was the performance this afternoon?"

"Unbelievable!" Marc exclaimed, shaking his head in awe. "Truly incredible. One of the best performances I've ever seen! Absolutely!"

"Wonderful! Just wonderful!" Katarina Koffler couldn't contain herself, her voice rising in excitement. "Worth every penny! To be honest, three hours wasn't enough. Now that I know the full show is only six hours long, I'm disappointed—why can't it be twelve?" She bounced on her feet. "Ah! The night isn't even over, and I already want to watch it again."

"How was Renly's performance?"

"Perfect!"

The answer came in unison, an instinctive response from those nearby. A moment of shared amusement followed, and then laughter erupted.

Marc grinned. "Perfect! Absolutely flawless! When you're sitting in the theater, the only thoughts in your mind are surrender and worship."

"Those are two thoughts," Chuck Smith teased.

Marc chuckled. "Fine, two thoughts. But seriously, you feel the power of his acting. Renly reminded me why I love movies so much—why I love him so much. Jesus Christ, he's phenomenal!"

Before the reporter could ask another question, Kristin Schutler interjected. "Do you know? Renly spent twelve hours a day rehearsing on stage for ten weeks. Then another six hours in the practice room. I can't even imagine that kind of dedication. I'm twenty-two, and I still can't focus that much."

"All that hard work was evident today," Marc nodded. "Watching him perform is a privilege. The moment he steps on stage, even if he's just in the background, you can't look away. He was born for this."

More praise poured in, but the reporter had heard it all before. He smirked. "Jesus Christ, you're making this play sound like the second coming."

Marc grinned. "You should get a ticket. Trust me, standing outside for an interview means you've missed everything."

With that, Marc and his friends surged forward, their excitement uncontainable. Strangers bonded over shared enthusiasm, voices overlapping in a symphony of admiration.

And this scene was just one of many.

Every reporter received the same glowing reviews—enthusiasm, adoration, unrestrained praise.

"Alistair! Alistair!" A few critics, emerging late, found themselves surrounded by reporters. "How does the first half measure up? Did Renly meet expectations? Is the play worth the hype?"

Faced with a wall of recording devices, Alistair and Nick exchanged knowing smiles but said nothing. They bypassed the crowd, refusing to comment before the play's conclusion.

But the expressions on their faces told the story.

The reporters exchanged glances. Could it be? Could Les Misérables truly be a masterpiece?

The answer, it seemed, was already written in the crowd's reaction.