The Greatest Showman #967 - Exploring the Backstage
"Wonderful, absolutely amazing! Renly Hall is definitely one of the best young actors of Generation Y—no doubt about it. God, I still can't get over it. The performances were so memorable."
"Yes, I'm really looking forward to the second half now. Tired? At one point, three hours felt long, but in reality, it was more exhilarating than exhausting. It's been so long since I last felt the true magic of theater."
"For me? I prefer the Almeida version. I know it's not for everyone because of its length, and the Queen's version is excellent; but personally, the Almeida production presents a grander vision of the original story, with a true appreciation for the details."
"A drama is meant to be experienced live. Renly Hall—he's truly exceptional. Now I understand why so many people praise him."
The atmosphere outside the Almeida Theatre was electric. After the first half of the performance, 550 audience members surged into the cool London evening. The entrance buzzed with activity as reporters scrambled for first-hand impressions, eager to capture even a glimpse of the night's spectacle. Meanwhile, audience members shared their excitement, reliving the magic of the show through hurried conversations.
And then there were the hopefuls—those still desperately searching for tickets, their signs held high, pleading for a chance to witness history. But it was a futile effort.
As the most coveted production of May, premiere-night tickets for Les Misérables had skyrocketed in value. Originally priced at £120, standard tickets had first been resold for £3,500, then £5,000. One lucky individual succumbed to temptation, selling their ticket for the astonishing sum. Yet, as the premiere approached, the black-market prices soared even higher—peaking at £6,000. By then, no one was willing to part with their seat.
The speculation, however, never ceased. Since Les Misérables was performed in two separate halves—with tickets available for each portion individually—many expected a drop in prices if the first half failed to impress. Some anticipated that ticket holders, disappointed by the production, might resell their seats for the second half at a reduced price. Even if the £6,000 mark wasn't met, a drop to £600 or even £300 would still be a steal.
But expectations didn't falter—they soared.
"The second half is even more exciting."
It seemed unbelievable. A six-hour performance in 2012? A clear warning sign that screamed, "Non-theater enthusiasts, stay away!" Yet, after three mesmerizing hours, the audience wasn't fatigued. They were electrified. The second half wasn't merely anticipated—it was demanded.
All 550 attendees. Without exception.
Well… perhaps with one exception—Alf Hall, whose thoughts remained elusive.
Rather than cooling, the demand for second-half tickets surged. Prices on the black market climbed to an unprecedented £8,000—a number so absurd it seemed more like a joke than a genuine offer. But whether real or symbolic, it reflected the show's extraordinary reception and Renly Hall's undeniable allure.
With two and a half hours remaining until the second act, the West End of London pulsed with anticipation, its excitement mounting with every passing moment. This wasn't just one of the craziest events in London that year—it might very well be the craziest.
Inside the Almeida Theatre, the fervor seeped into every corridor and crevice. Laughter and conversation filled the air, blending with the rhythmic hum of backstage preparations. The usual chill of a London evening seemed to lift, replaced by an almost tangible warmth—an energy that belonged to summer nights and legendary performances.
Ned Mullan adjusted his grip on his notepad, feeling a rare twist of nerves.
Yes—nervous. The realization made him chuckle under his breath.
As a senior journalist for Empire magazine, Ned had seen it all. More than that, he had recently conducted an in-depth interview with Renly at the Berlin Film Festival, where they'd had an engaging conversation. And yet, the prospect of seeing Renly again set his palms sweating and his heartbeat racing.
Noticing his smirk, theater manager Emma Fielding glanced at him. "Something funny?"
Ned chuckled. "If I told you I'm a little nervous right now, would you believe me?"
Emma didn't laugh. Instead, she nodded knowingly. "Believe me, I feel the same way. Interrupting the flow between the first and second acts is always a delicate balance. For the sake of my job security, I'm just as tense as you."
Her candor brought a smile to Ned's face.
Accompanied by Emma, he stepped into the Almeida's backstage area. While the West End's theaters were renowned for their rich histories, their backstage spaces were often far less glamorous—more labyrinth than luxury. In this seemingly modest building lay rehearsal rooms, prop storage, lifting platforms, waiting areas, and dressing rooms, each a vital cog in the theatrical machine.
London's theaters had endured for over a century, their names borrowed from royal legacies, historic districts, and legendary founders. Every hallway, every wooden beam bore the weight of time, echoing the footsteps of performers past and present.
The Almeida, though a mid-sized venue, felt particularly tight that evening.
Staff maneuvered massive set pieces through the corridors, preparing for the grander scenes in the second half—Jean Valjean's mansion, Marius' secret meeting place, and the barricades of revolution. Unlike many experimental productions, which often minimized set changes, Les Misérables embraced its scale. That choice added logistical complexity, inflated costs, and amplified the stakes.
Yet, the atmosphere backstage wasn't chaotic—it was controlled precision. Every crew member, from set designers to costume assistants, moved with purpose.
The actors, however, were nowhere to be seen.
As Empire's sole backstage correspondent for opening night, Ned's presence was an anomaly. His exclusive access was largely thanks to Empire's strong relationship with the Almeida. Without that connection, the competition for interviews would have been cutthroat. Every journalist knew that tonight wasn't just about Les Misérables—it was Renly's first public appearance since the Oscars.
No one wanted to miss it.
Ned wiped his palms discreetly against his blazer.
"Why is the show running for only three months?" he asked, glancing at Emma. "With such a massive investment, wouldn't six to nine months be more reasonable? The audience demand is clearly there."
Emma's expression remained composed, but her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "The premiere isn't even over yet—I don't want to get ahead of myself. But truthfully, we would love for it to run longer. The challenge is the runtime. Six hours is exhausting for any actor."
She paused thoughtfully before continuing. "It's a challenge for the cast, the theater, and even the audience. Three months felt like the safest commitment. Besides, Renly is an incredibly in-demand actor. Keeping him here indefinitely would only disappoint his fans elsewhere."
Unlike films, theater had geographical limitations. Not every cinephile could hop over to London for a play—even a critically acclaimed one. Even a Broadway transfer wouldn't solve that issue entirely.
"We signed Renly for three months, but the rest of the cast has more flexibility. After that, we'll reassess. If necessary, we could bring in a new cast and extend the run."
Emma hesitated before adding, "That said, I did speak to Renly privately. He told me that even after three months, if the opportunity arose, he'd be thrilled to return." Her lips curled into an uncharacteristically giddy smile. "I don't know if you've ever spoken with Renly face-to-face, but when he's on stage, his eyes light up differently. He was born for this."
"I know," Ned murmured.
They reached the waiting room. Laughter spilled from within, carrying with it the unmistakable energy of a cast about to make history.