The Greatest Showman #977 - Long Life

The Almeida Theatre was eerily silent. Not a sound could be heard, even the quietest of breaths seemed to disappear. Yet beneath this silence, there was a quiet intensity, a storm of emotions swirling beneath the calm. Deep eyes reflected a mix of feelings—like a tumultuous sea, hidden currents clashing beneath the surface.

The long performance had begun at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. After a three-hour first half, a two-and-a-half-hour break, and nearly three hours for the second half, it felt less like a play and more like a marathon. A vast and magnificent world slowly unfolded before our eyes, the mighty panorama stretching endlessly. It was as though we had lived an entire lifetime ourselves.

We had witnessed the pure love of Marius and Cosette. We had seen Éponine's tragic death. We had experienced the Thenardiers' greed. We had shared in the passionate fire of Enjolras. We had watched Javert's somber death. We had seen every character—their joys and sorrows—play out in a period of time, a life, a history.

Three hours, plus another three—felt like a century. The audience had followed Jean Valjean through a lifetime.

Did we change the world, or did the world change us?

Through six hours of performance, a world was sketched out before us, only to be violently upended—worn, weathered, and filled with the blood of countless lives that had come and gone, all pushing the wheel of history forward. The withered youth, lost lives, repentant souls, and tragic fate—all crashed into us, leaving us speechless.

This was torment. This was a test. But it was life. The real world, as painful and cruel as it is, is a far harsher reality. The play mirrored life, and life mirrored the play. On this stage, we witnessed the grand arc of existence—joy, sorrow, birth, aging, sickness, and death—all condensed into a breathtaking moment. It was magnificently grand.

And so, the audience sat in silence. Then, they erupted into applause.

The reason why Les Misérables is a masterpiece lies not only in the tragic heroism of Jean Valjean but in the shock of witnessing the sweeping tide of history. The Queen's Theatre version focuses on the former, creating a timeless classic. In contrast, the Almeida Theatre's version emphasizes the latter, revealing the true essence of the times and history.

This was no mere play.

On stage, Jean Valjean lay in a quiet, frail state. His hair was thin, his cheeks gaunt. His body was withered by age, his face a mask of gentle pain and struggle, enduring without a sound.

Marc Lacante could no longer hold back his tears.

This old man...

This man who had lived a long life, who had used his strength to protect Cosette, to fulfill Fantine's promise, who had sacrificed everything to safeguard Marius for Cosette's love. He had even touched Javert's heart, proving that redemption is possible for those who have faltered.

But now, at the end of his life, he was alone.

He had confessed his past sins, but Marius turned cold, and even Cosette misunderstood him. Despite years of selfless sacrifice, he found himself abandoned. The once joyful Jean Valjean was now engulfed by solitude, without even the strength to attend the wedding of his beloved Cosette. Was this fate? Or was this his redemption?

Jean Valjean had once been a sinner, spending his entire life seeking atonement. At the end, he still waited for forgiveness. In the tide of history, he was but an ant, struggling to survive as he was carried along, lost without direction.

"...Lord on high, hear my prayers, take me away by Your grace; wherever You are, let me follow. Take me home... Take me back to my family."

The melody of "Take Him Home" played, but this time, it wasn't Marius being called—it was Jean Valjean's final journey. With pained eyes and a haggard face, he sang softly. Suddenly, tears flowed freely, and Marc wiped his face in shame, but the tears continued to fall.

There was no shame. This was not a movie theater but a live theater. There was no screen between the stage and the audience. Every emotion, every feeling, every spark of energy was directly transferred from the stage to the hearts of the audience. A deep, soul-shattering connection took place.

Here, joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, coexisted. So, we laughed. And we cried. It was only natural. There was no need for shame or hesitation. Marc was not alone.

On stage, Jean Valjean's earnest, heart-wrenching plea, his trembling voice, the weight of six hours of accumulated emotion, released in a final, powerful surge. It hit the audience like a tidal wave, leaving them breathless.

A beam of light shone down on Renly, illuminating his frail, weakened figure. His burqa hung loosely, almost slipping off, emphasizing his frail body. Yet, his presence on the stage was commanding. With each appearance, his performance grew stronger, pulling the audience in, even though the John Cod version had diminished the role of Jean Valjean. Renly's performance still shone as the heart of the show.

By this point, Renly's face was weathered, unrecognizable, his eyes dull. Yet, through his every gesture, his emotions came through powerfully, touching every heart. The words "Take me home" carried with them a heartbreaking weight, the labored breaths echoing in every soul.

At this moment, Alistair put aside all distractions, simply soaking in Renly's performance, savoring the profound emotion unfolding before him.

Then, a spotlight fell on the left side of the stage, and Fantine appeared once again. In the ethereal glow, she seemed both beautiful and unreal, like a vision. This was Jean Valjean's dying hallucination. As he neared the end of his life, Fantine appeared to greet him, signaling that the time had come. All pain, all suffering, would soon end.

On the grand stage, Fantine stood on the left, Jean Valjean on the right. The space between them was dark, filled only with a faint halo of light. Slowly, Fantine moved toward him, her approach shrinking the distance between them. The emotions of grief and loss swelled, until Jean Valjean whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Cosette," he murmured.

Even as he lay on his deathbed, Jean Valjean's last thought was of Cosette. But she wasn't there.

"Dad, Daddy!" A cry broke through the darkness as Cosette appeared, with Marius following closely behind.

It was only then that Marius learned that Jean Valjean was the man who had saved his life. Cosette, too, realized that she had misunderstood her father. Both rushed to his side, only to find him weak and dying. Grief and regret overtook them as they collapsed, weeping.

They knelt at his feet, asking for forgiveness, pleading for him to recover.

But Jean Valjean had given up. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he slowly raised his hand to gently touch Marius's face. "Now that you are here..." he whispered, his voice weak.

With the last of his strength, he placed Marius's hand on Cosette's, his eyes closing in peace. "I can die peacefully now... my life has been blessed by the Lord."

A faint smile lingered on his lips, so fragile it seemed ready to vanish at any moment.

Cosette held his hand tightly. "You'll live, papa. You'll live," she said, her voice trembling with fear. "It's too soon... too soon to say goodbye."

But as she looked up, her smile was overshadowed by the tears in her eyes, the panic and sadness overwhelming her. Marius, kneeling beside her, held her close, offering support, but it was clear that even his strength couldn't ease the pain.

Jean Valjean made one final effort to raise his left hand, but it fell back weakly. Cosette collapsed, holding his hand to her cheek, trying to capture the warmth, but it slipped away like a kite caught in the wind.

The tighter she held on, the faster he slipped away.

Alistair's eyes were alight. Wonderful. Truly magnificent. Not just Renly, but Charlotte Kennedy as Cosette, and Joe Alwyn as Marius—they had brought the emotional transformation of these three characters to life. Their performance was nothing short of extraordinary.

Simply beautiful.