Today, my heart breaks a little more as the chandelier at The Phantom of the Opera makes its final, heart-stopping descent on Broadway. Every night, for the past 35 years, it has swung out from the rafters of the Majestic Theatre at 245 West 44th Street, Manhattan, high above the heads of tourists, first-time audiences and regular Phantom veterans. Sold as the ‘most haunting love story on Broadway’, Phantom has enchanted viewers for decades with its iconic music, glimmering costumes and heart-wrenchingly tragic story (only for the avid Erik sympathisers, though – Raoul fans are in luck). But to me, Phantom is far more special than that. I can mark just a few turning points in life, and walking into Phantom was perhaps the first of them. On a cold, wintry December night in 2015, I was huddled in a line that snaked around the Majestic Theatre, shivering and clutching my coat tightly to myself. I was full off a mushroom-chickpea soup that had been bought at a nearby Christmas market and hurriedly gulped down to make it in time for the show. My fingers were numb as I turned around to check how far we’d made it down the line – decently far – and before I knew it, we were ushered into the depths of the theatre, Playbills in hand. I still remember where we sat – it was in the second row of the centre stalls, close to the right aisle and incidentally, right under where the iconic chandelier falls from the ceiling at the end of the first act. Looking around, I recall being distinctly unimpressed. Old, grey cloths were draped and tied over the proscenium arch, and the stage was littered with random structures, also covered in cloth… I could hardly believe that this was the famed production – then in it’s 28th year on Broadway – that people had paid good money and travelled across the world to see. Soon enough, the house lights went down, and the ensemble walked on for the first auction scene. Being a twelve-year old unaccustomed to the British accent, I was confused. Why was there an auction? I thought I came to watch a man in a mask. Compounded with the fact that I’d never listened to the music (other than Think of Me, which I once had to learn for a piano lesson), or read the plot, or known anything other than that the main character’s name was Christine, I could do little more than sit back in my seat and try to grasp whatever grains of plot floated to the top, of which there were few. In my haze of confusion, I could just barely make out the final lines of that first scene: ‘Perhaps, we may even frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination – gentlemen!’ And at that moment, with a massive spark (or what seemed massive to a naïve and impressionable 12 year old, at least), the chandelier – so dim, so gloomy, so unremarkable – burst into life and light with the resounding opening chord of the overture. From that moment on, I was hooked. I watched on in awe as the overture reached its signature modulation and the drapery was artfully ripped from the stage, revealing ornate gold angels and rich maroon finishings, as fallen tapestries were hung back up, adorning the back of the stage, and as that glorious chandelier rose slowly above my head with flashing lights, returning to its rightful place. The next two hours were a blur of colours, movement and fabric, accompanied by the lush orchestrations of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s music which swelled and grew, and sweeping me along. The blood was singing in my veins to melodies more beautiful than any I’d ever heard, my gaze was transfixed on the characters before me, I felt their joy, their fear, their despair… I didn’t dare breathe. I knew I was experiencing magic in its truest, purest form. When the final chord played as Meg looked up in wonder, cradling the mask in her hands, I could almost feel my heart stop beating. It was catharsis like I’d never felt before – for those two and a half hours, I was exhilaratingly alive. In that instant, I knew I’d found what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Phantom ignited in me a passion for theatre and performance – my mum always jokes that she regrets having ever brought me to see it because of the chain of events that it set off (which ultimately culminated in ‘Mummy, I want to go to drama school’). In the most genuine, non-cliché way possible, without Phantom, I don’t know who I’d be. The show has followed me around since the start of my musical theatre journey – the first song that I brought into an audition workshop was Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again (obviously, being a baby theatre nerd and not knowing that you don’t bring Webber into an audition), and so was my first solo performance in public. The first song I sang at a musical theatre open mic night was Music of the Night, the first duet I learnt was All I Ask of You. For a solid six months after I first watched the musical, I listened to the 25th anniversary soundtrack every single day, playing it in the bathroom while getting ready and in the car on the way to school, committing all the music and lyrics to memory. I bought the DVD, the Blu-ray and the CD of the 25th anniversary production (and had the digital version on my Spotify). I’d come home and join my grandfather in fawning over Sierra Boggess and Ramin Karimloo’s Classic Brit Awards performance on the TV, then I’d proceed to go around the house singing through the score from start to end – I even knew it well enough to sing along to the orchestrations. Phantom was key in helping me develop my singing voice – the classical genre of the music shaped my technique as it developed through high school, and taught me how to sing with a vibrato, what breath support and proper open resonance sounded like, and most importantly, how to act through song (thank you, Sierra Boggess). Since then, I’ve gone on to watch Phantom thrice more, in 2017 (London), 2019 (international tour in Singapore) and 2021 (London) – according to the trend, a rewatch seems imminent any day now – for it’s the classic I always come back to eventually. And of course, the tiniest, tiniest part of me harboured the big dream of someday being able to play Christine on Broadway. Perhaps it was because of my strong classical singing foundation, or simply the wonder of listening to the music, but Christine was my very first dream role. Despite how the genre of musical theatre has expanded and shifted to more contemporary pop sounds, Phantom has always remained a firm classic. Newer shows have opened, created massive movements and cult followings, then closed, and still Phantom has continued playing at the Majestic Theatre. Against a constantly evolving backdrop of the musical theatre genre, the show remained resolute and unchanging – just as the role of Christine has always remained at the back of my mind. It had with it the legacy of being the longest-running Broadway show, opening decades before I was born, and I maintained the naïve belief that its billboard would always remain tall and imposing, towering over the hustle and bustle of Times Square. And carrying with it a dream that, with hard work, sheer gritty determination and the right amount of luck, might just come true. So now, with Phantom’s final curtain call on the Great White Way, I am in mourning. While it still plays on in London, Japan, China, Korea, Greece, Italy, Spain, Prague, Sweden, and every other country it will continue to play at for years to come, it is the end of an era on Broadway. For the past 35 years, Phantom has defined its landscape – in the words of Sierra Boggess, ‘this one piece that was tried and true’. When Ali Ewoldt stepped in as the first woman of colour and Asian descent to play Christine, the possibilities it opened up for me were breathtaking – until then, I had never thought it possible that a person who looked Asian (or just non-White), as I did, would be able to be Christine. I was filled with a newfound resolve and a goal to work towards, but Phantom’s closure brings with it a wistful end to this dream of mine. And while I know that this is not the end (Broadway revival, anyone?), it is the end of The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway as we know and have known it for the past 35 years. New productions or revivals will never quite be the same – they will not have been directed by Hal Prince, and neither will they carry the same nostalgia that this one does, having changed my life eight years ago. But for the 35 years that we did have, I will always be grateful and indebted – I owe this production my life and my soul. Happy, happy trails, Phantom. ‘You alone can make my song take flight, It’s over now, the music of the night.’ MEG crosses to the throne and, tentatively but courageously, pulls the cloak away revealing empty air. The PHANTOM has vanished, leaving only his white mask. In wonder, she reaches out and picks up the mask in her small hand. CURTAIN.
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