Saw Les Miserables last night for either a seventh or an eighth time, depending on whether you count a scaled-down, adapted-for-children production or not (if you do then it’s eight, if not…well, you know). I probably ran out of original things to say about Les Miserables in 1993; indeed, all I really have to say about last night’s production is that Randall Keith is utterly brilliant as Jean Valjean (comparable to Colm Wilkinson, in fact) and that it reminded me–as if I needed a reminder–just how good the show’s music really is. (I’m sure Bri will have something interesting to write: last night was the proverbial popping of her Les Miserables cherry.) Last night was also noteworthy for the fact that, about five minutes into the show, the person sitting in front of us puked all over the Princess of Wales’ lucious red carpet. At one point in the show I turned to Bri and asked, “Do you smell Caesar Salad?” She nodded. The smell kept wafting in and out–and then at one point Bri turned to me and said, “This isn’t Caesar salad–this is puke.” And it was: when we returned to our seats before the start of Act II a janitor was steamcleaning the seats. Good times.
I should also mention that, during the show’s finale, approximately every second person in the Balcony was crying audibly. The end of Les Miserables is utterly epic…like, if you can listen to the final chorus without getting shivers up and down your back then you probably don’t have a soul. Got tickets to see it again October 19; hopefully this time I’ll get to experience it in a vomit-free environment.