The Greatest Showman #974 - Singing Narrative

The second half of the show at the Almeida Theater began.

The long intermission is a challenge for any audience.

Two and a half hours may seem long, yet it also feels short. For a sandwich and coffee dinner, it's a stretch; for a formal French or Italian meal, it's barely enough to savor a glass of red wine.

This seemingly inconsequential length of time tests the audience's patience and loyalty.

Before today's premiere, many mainstream media outlets focused on the play's length and the intermission. "Three hours plus three hours"—a six-hour performance—even seasoned enthusiasts considered it a trial, let alone the average theatergoer, which may have kept many from attending.

Some netizens humorously posted on Facebook and Twitter:

"The intermission is too long. If you're not careful, the audience might leave and never come back for the second half. Maybe the Almeida should shorten the break or serve dinner in the theater to avoid a second-half disaster."

Such jokes were common, but how does it measure against reality?

Marc Lacante, however, truly felt the weight of the intermission. Two and a half hours felt like two centuries. Every passing minute was an eternity. He couldn't wait to return to the theater, to reenter the world of the second act.

After the three-hour first half, the experience left an indelible impression. The fragments of scenes in his mind were powerful, far too captivating to ignore. His anticipation to return to the Almeida Theater was overwhelming.

Leave? Take a nap? Those thoughts never crossed his mind. The excitement and adrenaline could not be contained. He was ready to dive into the second half, to continue absorbing the magnificence of the production.

When the second half resumed, he rushed back into the theater, eager to settle into a red velvet chair and prepare for what was to come.

The performance quickly regained its momentum, and the audience was once again immersed in the magic of the show. "One Day More," with its intricate, revolving cast, was an undeniable highlight—an emotional high that had the audience on their feet, transfixed by the sheer brilliance of the moment.

Familiar scenes intertwined with fresh ones as the story progressed. The entire era unfolded before their eyes, vividly illustrating the struggles and hopes of the time.

As they watched the characters unite in resistance against the tyranny and injustice of their world, a surge of adrenaline and excitement spread through the crowd. For a moment, it felt as though they, too, were part of the movement—a wave of revolution that would finally break through.

In one poignant twist, Jean Valjean discovered Cosette's secret: her love for Marius. The two young lovers, their passion as uncontrollable as it was forbidden, became each other's greatest support. Amid the turmoil of their world, they found solace in one another.

But Jean Valjean, torn between duty and affection, grappled with a profound dilemma. As Marius fought on the front lines, knowing the battle was brutal and the odds were slim, Jean Valjean feared he might lose him—one of the many fallen victims of the revolution.

Jean Valjean was not a hero; he was not a savior of the masses, nor a martyr. He was a man who longed only to protect those he loved. Despite his powerlessness to change the course of history, he would do whatever it took to save Marius, to preserve Cosette's last hope.

Recklessly, he joined the battle, a lone warrior on the front lines. Here, he met Javert, who was a prisoner of fate. Jean Valjean saved Enjolras, the leader of the revolutionaries, and, in a moment of mercy, chose to let Javert go. There was no bargain, no deal—only an act of forgiveness.

This simple act shattered Javert's worldview. It was a transformative moment that completed the cycle of fate.

But more importantly, Javert witnessed the courage of Marius, Enjolras, and the others, even as the battle seemed hopeless. The so-called criminals, once considered societal outcasts, had become champions of the people. Their sacrifices revealed the true meaning of resistance.

Jean Valjean found Marius, who, in his final moments before the clash, thought of Cosette, full of love and yearning. The intensity of Marius's emotions pierced Jean Valjean's heart. He wanted to save him, to save them all, but he knew his own frailty couldn't carry the weight of the world.

At that moment, Jean Valjean turned to prayer. He sought comfort in the teachings of Bishop Myriel, hoping to find guidance and strength to carry out his promise.

This wasn't just about saving Marius; this was Jean Valjean's own moment of transformation. After years of suffering, his soul cried out in repentance, his heart filled with love and forgiveness.

In this moment, he found clarity—his purpose was not defined by the battles fought or the lives saved, but by his ability to love unconditionally, to sacrifice, and to offer hope.

From doubt to faith, from isolation to unity, from bitterness to peace, Jean Valjean had undergone a profound metamorphosis. Standing before Cosette, Marius, and even Javert, he had reached his final redemption.

When Jean Valjean sang "Bring Him Home," it was not just a song—it was his final confession, a cry from the depths of his soul. While the song may not be as well-known as other iconic tunes from the play, for those who understand its depth, it carries a weight of immeasurable significance.

The Queen's Theatre version had already proven the difficulty of the song for Jean Valjean's performers. But with the Almeida Theater's new rendition, there was uncertainty—would the song be cut or altered?

When the first notes rang out, the audience held their breath. They knew that the true test had begun.

Marc sat upright, leaned forward, and let his anticipation consume him. Every moment in the theater felt like a treasure, every note a gift. The tension in the air was palpable, and the excitement was contagious.

Jean Valjean's slow walk across the stage, his every step carrying the weight of the world, was a testament to his inner transformation. His expression shifted, conveying care, concern, and a deep, abiding love.

There were no words needed—everything was conveyed through his presence, the softness of the light, and the intimate space between him and Marius. The atmosphere was fragile, yet profoundly beautiful.

Jean Valjean's prayer—a plea for mercy—reverberated throughout the theater. The audience held their breath as his voice rang out, a simple yet powerful appeal to a higher power.

In that moment, it wasn't just a performance—it was a connection to something far greater, a reminder of the capacity for compassion, sacrifice, and redemption that exists in the human soul.