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Havana Daydreaming

“Oh, Havana, I’ve been searching for you everywhere
And though I’ll never be there…”

(Billy Joel, “Rosalinda’s Eyes”)

In 1997, I prepared my first list of places I wanted to visit in this lifetime. It was pretty basic, containing about what you would expect (although even then, my focus was primarily on Europe). The list was revised several times in the intervening years, and I am currently working off the most current, 2020 version. It is significantly more precise (I narrowed New England down to Maine, identified specific cities and experiences in various countries which I have already visited, and ultimately, decided there is nothing for me in either Minnesota or Australia—no offense). The place at the top of this new[ish] list is Cuba. In 1997, I did not imagine that visiting Cuba was possible. It seems complicated still (especially for someone with my aversion to organized group travels, and given the general state of the world). But everyone has to have that one place that remains elusive.

This is the least horrifying photo I could find in the public domain. Or any other, for that matter.

When I was in second grade, the mother of one of my classmates did a presentation to our class about her trip to Cuba. Bulgaria was exotic enough. Cuba was unimaginable. She came with a show and tell. There must have been some candy, though I have absolutely no memory, real or imagined, of that, and have no experience with Cuban treats to this day. There must have been some elementary-level geo-political presentation; we already felt a certain reverence for our exotic, far away only friend in the Western Hemisphere. What I do remember very vividly is a little stuffed crocodile that she brought with her. I am sure that a baby taxidermy croc would intrigue any child; it was so fascinating to me that in my mind’s eye, I still see Irka Rybakova’s mother standing in front of our class in her belted dress, holding this shiny leathery wonder. Neither alligators nor crocodiles exist in Russia; this was years before I saw one in a zoo. So strong was this impression that for years if I heard “Cuba”, the first image that would come to me is that of a little crocodile.

That is, until I saw a documentary on PBS[1]—and that day is about as far away from today as it is from the day I saw the baby crocodile, which is to say that I have identified Cuba with its marvelous music for at least as long as I have identified it with crocodiles, a distinct improvement. The film touched me on every level—I did not just fall in love with the music, but the sights of Havana, the camaraderie of old musicians, their unpretentious yet assured personalities, their warmth and pride in their homeland[2]. From that time until CDs have gone the way of cassette tapes, I have accumulated a lovely collection of traditional Cuban music. My meager Spanish is just enough to get the gist of most songs, and that is indeed enough for me. At some point, the Buena Vista Social Club orchestra came to town during a worldwide tour. I did not go (something about ticket prices, and I am generally not a concert goer). While it is tempting to call this the biggest regret of my life, it did not feel so at the time. The CDs continued to sustain me.

Almost two years ago, Buena Vista Social Club musical showed up off Broadway, but it was December, and I had other plans. Once again, I made an informed decision to hold out. This time, I was not wrong, for a little over a year later, it finally appeared on The Great White Way, and I was there for it. Well, to be honest, I was not the first in line. I was skeptical. When you love something, you do not want it touched and tinkered with. You do not want your memories sullied. This is why I avoid movies based on books I love[3], and generally try to avoid musicals based on movies, which these days is practically an impossibility. My mother and I planned a trip to NYC, and I was still not convinced, thinking that I will grab the tickets when I get there. Then Buena Vista was nominated for a Tony, and I figured I better make a move before it becomes a hotter ticket than my limited window of opportunity could support.

I loved the music, but knew nothing about the story, or even cared about it. On the night of the Tony Awards, I instantly recognized all the characters during the musical number as if they were old friends. I figured, if nothing else, I will still love the music. I have seen jukebox musicals, some with better books than others, and in all cases, the music alone has been enough.

It turned out to be the story I did not know I needed. The prequel to the events of the documentary, when Omara Portuondo met Ibrahim Ferrer, Compay Segundo, Ruben Gonzalez and others, when they were all making music in the waning days of the Batista regime and the dawning of the revolution, is full of hope, exuberance, and excitement, and sparkles with gentle humor. The reunion of the former bandmates several decades later, familiar from the documentary, is wistful and burdened with the weight of years gone by, as these things go. Through it all, the musicians—recipients of the most well-deserved special Tony Award—are simply spellbinding, and the songs are just as gorgeous as ever I heard and loved them.

And then there are the Portuondo sisters. On the eve of the revolution, one leaves for the U.S., in the scene reminiscent of another musical, on seemingly the last plane out of Havana. The other stays, because someone has to continue to sing the songs of the people, for the people. The moment when Omara decides not to leave, whether based in truth or in romantic fiction, touched my heart even more than hearing Chan-Chan live. Some choices we make, some are made for us, some are conscious and based in sacred truth, some are based on the cards we are holding at the time. Sitting in the Schoenfeld Theatre on a Friday night in July, seeing and hearing this story with all my senses, I both cried for and praised the impossible, life-altering, life-affirming decision[4]. https://buenavistamusical.com/

[1] When we still had PBS…

[2] The Mandela Effect had me believing all these years that Buena Vista Social Club won the Oscar for best documentary. It did not. The documentary that won that year was “One Day in September”. Do you remember it? Me, neither.

[3] No, Les Miserables does NOT count, because I saw the French TV special first, for those reading [all] along.

[4] I once had a classmate of Cuban heritage. His father fled to the US during Batista’s rule; his mother, during Castro’s. He marveled at the idea that had they never left Cuba, they would have never met, being from such different socio-economic background. The conclusion that I drew from this story, however, was that people flee various regimes for various reasons, not just the ones from which we are taught to believe they do.

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Do You Hear the People Sing?

It has been brought to my attention more than once[1] that all my theater posts have referred only obliquely to my most favorite musical of all time, “Les Miserables”. And so because I (1) tend to not write timely and (2) am most assuredly not a theater reviewer, here is a tribute more than 30 years in the making.

My first encounter with “Les Miserables” was when the French black and white 1958 miniseries made it to the Soviet television during my childhood. It seems to be the superior cinematic version because it is French and stars the great Jean Gabin. At whatever single-digit age I was when I saw it, however, I was incredibly impressed by Gavroche, his pluck, tragic death, and the fact that he lived inside an elephant. So much did I carry on about this elephant than when we saw the US movie version, the one with Hugh Jackman[2], my kids were besides themselves with the realization that I did not exaggerate this fact. (I really do not embellish—it’s just that my reality has routinely been stranger than fiction…)

When I moved to New York City in 1990, “Phantom of the Opera” was the hottest ticket in town. It was not even brand new by then, but the wait for tickets was two years. Two years, “Hamilton” fans! In those pre-internet days, I literally had to call the box office and be told that I can get on the wait list. I planned to be in NYC for at least three years, but I was also 21. Needless to say, I never got on a wait list, and never saw “Phantom” on Broadway.

Somehow, word got around that “Les Miserables” not only did not have a decade-long wait for tickets but was offering student discounts to the tune of $14. Now, this was a very different time with very different pricing structure for live theater. Full price tickets were $50, which was substantial, especially for poor students. But, movie ticket prices in NYC were climbing into double digits, so to see a Broadway show for just a few more dollars seemed—and was—extremely reasonable. Some friends of mine took advantage of this amazing offer and reported that, while the show was good, it was “depressing”. This was high recommendation, leading me to believe that the story was not Hollywood-ized. Of course I loved it. If I knew then what I know now, I would have seen it again. And again.

In the 1990s and early 2000s, “Les Miz” was touring on a semi-regular basis, and I saw it twice more in Detroit. The third time, in 2010, my kids were finally old enough to be worth a ticket (for at that point, we were already hundreds of dollars away from the measly $50, let alone $14). I built it up as the best thing they will ever see live on stage. The lights came down, and I broke out in cold sweat, because—“There is no ship in Les Miz”! The Abomination came to town. For three interminable hours, I watched my beloved show dismantled. Gone were the revolving stage and the barricades, replaced with CGI images. Gavroche’s song was cut. The whole production was just somehow pedestrian, dull, in a word—miserable. And poor Enjolras, the tragic hero of the doomed uprising, is wheeled away in a cart possibly borrowed from Spamalot (don’t you just expect him to spring up singing “I’m not dead yet”?) Trevor Nunn, the director of the original production, hated it, asking “why something inferior has been created when something superior could have been created.” [3] Why indeed?

I took this musical for granted because it always existed, it always toured, but after seeing the new and worsened version, I was crushingly disappointed. I took to the internet and discovered that the original version was still playing at the West End. That was all well and good, but before I even had time to lament this unreachable dream, I learned that I would be going on a business trip to London in the coming months. If ever I believed in luck and fate, it was at that moment. But… but, I must have forgotten that life is just a series of turns around which fate is waiting with a stuffed eel skin[4]. Thinking that a musical that is a quarter of a century old is not the hottest ticket in town, I figured that I will just grab a ticket at a half-price booth upon arrival. However, leisurely perusing West End offerings with the idea to see what else I could see[5], led me to a sudden shocking discovery: there were no tickets for “Les Miserables” during the time of my trip! Whaaat?! An increasingly frantic internet search revealed that Alfie Boe[6] was doing a limited run as Jean Valjean. Furthermore, Matt Lucas was appearing as Thenardier at the same time—and frankly, my money is still on him causing the sellout, because when he said “Paris in the DUST” and chuckled knowingly, the audience just died like when Lin Manuel Miranda first appears on stage and utters “Alexander Hamilton”.

So yes, that was a spoiler alert: I got the ticket, from a reseller. I actually got two tickets, because they were not sold singly, and it was still cheaper than a ticket to a touring production in Detroit, because, well, U.S. theater prices versus the rest of the world. If you know, you know. It was all that I remembered and missed, and more, because I knew to never take it for granted again—not just the gorgeous music and the moving story, but Trevor Nunn’s iconic production.

In the few years that followed, I was extremely fortunate to see the original London production four more times. The last time was in the spring of 2018. In 2019, it closed, and was eventually replaced by The Abomination. On my last visit to London, in November 2021, weeks after Les Miz’ post-pandemic reopening, I walked on by [ https://oldladywriting.com/2021/11/28/west-end-and-beyond/]. I am grateful that the last time I saw Les Miserables, it was in its full glory, revolving stage, barricade coming together and turning, no unnecessary projections and other staging fails too numerous to mention. Hope dies last, but in any case, the original production of Les Miserables lives in my memory.

[1] Maybe it was only once, but very recently on World Theatre Day.

[2] Hugh is great in many ways, but he is no Jean Gabin. I said what I said.

[3] https://playbill.com/article/trevor-nunn-speaks-out-on-revised-london-bound-les-miz-mackintosh-responds-com-169704

[4] P.G. Wodehouse

[5] I also saw “Billy Elliott” and “Betty Blue Eyes”; the first one because a colleague chose it and the second one because it looked like something that would never come to the U.S., which, as you know, is how I pick my West End shows.

[6] Alfie Boe is an incredible operatic tenor. But the best Valjean is Killian Donnelly, who not only sings, but is a fantastic actor. OK, Jean Gabin is THE best Valjean overall, but Killian Donnelly is the best singing Valjean. I said what I said.

West End and Beyond

The great Russian writer Konstantin Paustovsky astutely noted, “A sense of nature is one of the foundations of patriotism”. During the pandemic, while everyone was communing with nature, camping and hiking, I most assuredly was not. I visited one national park (with mixed success) https://oldladywriting.com/2021/06/11/i-went-up-north-once-once/, did not take down my old lady bicycle from the ceiling of our garage where it has been hanging for about twenty years now, and did not take up “hiking” as a hobby. I waited and bided my time in a Midwestern suburb until an opportunity to travel to London presented itself.

I saw five plays in seven days, which is my ideal vacation under any circumstances. Now that the original production of “Les Miserables” has been replaced (not permanently, I fervently pray) by the abomination that is the 25^th anniversary version, my London dance card is emptier. I must clarify that at the West End, I try to see shows that I am unlikely to see anywhere else. Unless Sir Patrick Stewart, Sir Ian McKellen, or the not-yet-knighted David Tennant or John Simm are appearing in “Jersey Boys” or “Book of Mormon”, I am catching those when they come to Detroit. On this trip, I even wandered out of London, to Bath and Richmond. The theater scene even outside of the West End was breathtaking.

And here they are, in order of appearance. Spoiler alert: all were great.

Number One: “Only Fools and Horses”—a delightful new[ish] musical to welcome us back to the West End. I actually researched the current offerings for about five minutes and this one jumped out at me as something that will never make it to the US, being as it is based on what is apparently a cult favorite English sitcom from the 80’s that is not part of the BBC America repertoire. The fact that I missed many inside show references did not diminish the enjoyment. The shady dealer older brother, the earnest goofy younger brother, the slightly demented grandad, various other comical yet lovable characters inhabiting their corner of London, catchy tunes, fun choreography, heartwarming story, and the evident delight of the audience made me want to go out and find the original TV show. This was met with zero success during the trip, but thank God for Brit Box.

Number Two: “Magic Goes Wrong”—the latest installment in the “Goes Wrong” series by Mischief Theatre company. We saw “Peter Pan Goes Wrong” at the London Apollo a few years ago (“Magic”’s current home), and it was the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life. The woman who sat next to spouse actually confessed that she wet herself laughing, which is neither surprising nor shameful given the level of creative absurdity that starts even before the curtain goes up. The element of surprise is gone once you have seen one of their shows—I mean, you know that everything that can go wrong will—but it is still a hilarious great fun. Penn and Teller created the magic side of it, so there is some actual legitimate magic alongside the bumbling tomfoolery. I suppose *that* is the surprise.

Number Three: “Blue/Orange”—a snapshot of the British mental health system (which seems as woefully deficient as the American one), full of dark humor and unnerving exchanges, with racial tension in the mix. On a Tuesday evening, the little theater in Bath was packed, which did my heart good. In this version, the character with the most authority of the three was played by a Black actor, which shifted the power dynamic to an intriguing level. Like “Art”, this is a play I would want to see again and again to continue to analyze its many nuances.

Number Four: “Abigail’s Party”—a 70’s comedy of manners. I saw it once before, in Belfast, and wondered then why such a juicy acting opportunity is not presented in the US. On second viewing, I have to concede that, while there is tremendous joy in period costumes and set, the play is very British. It is not just a play set in a specific decade, but in a specific place (I, of course, appreciate every Demis Roussos reference). But I still think that the crafted written characters can stand well enough on their own, and you do not have to be British or have lived through the decade to appreciate this powerful dark[ish] satire of the middle class pretenses. It is a bit of a precursor to “The God of Carnage”, to my mind. (And how many Yasmina Reza can one post contain?)

Number Five: “Private Lives”—which needs no introduction. I am well familiar with this play both on its own and through “Moon Over Buffalo”. Like “Art” (there I go again!), I have seen it in three countries—and like with “Art”, I traveled to England to see Nigel Havers in it. Of course, he was marvelous as Elyot, as he is in everything he does—and Patricia Hodge as Amanda was an extra treat.

This time, I was determined to meet him, waited at the stage door, and was shocked when he actually came out—and there was no one to converge on him but me and the trailing spouse. You would think that I would have used this opportunity to shine with my witty repartee and winning personality. You would be wrong—I have no such gifts. Spouse said that I should have prepared and rehearsed a speech. Son asked if mentioned how much we appreciated his performance in “Art”. But of course not—I blurted out that I came all the way from Detroit to see him on my birthday (sort of endearing), and went on for a bit about how much I loved him in “Chariots of Fire”. While I did not mention that I have literally seen the film over fifty times in the theater and can recite it verbatim (which is apparently more annoying than charming, as my family tells me), I inanely informed him that I have a “Chariots of Fire” luggage tag on my suitcase. https://oldladywriting.com/2021/09/27/adventures-of-a-suitcase/ What a dork! Having followed Nigel Havers’ career for forty years, having even read his autobiography twice (“Playing with Fire”; highly recommended), that was the best I could do under pressure. Well, I suppose I could have done worse. (Someone, please tell me how I could have done worse!) I am consoling myself that I excel in a more intimate discussion setting. Next time, next time…

Honorable mention: Upon returning home, I had the opportunity to see “Pretty Woman” the musical. My assessment of the show: the seats at the Fisher Theater in Detroit are the most comfortable ones.

Gratuitous images of Shakespeare’s Globe, which was closed, and the filming of an episode of “McDonald & Dodds” in Bath.

London Calling

With my love of travel, my love of Gilbert and Sullivan, and my love of “Chariots of Fire”, there is one important location that has not yet been mentioned. It Is a Glorious Thing – Old Lady Writing Did you guess London? If so, you guessed correctly. If not, I cannot fathom what you are thinking.

London was slightly elusive in my younger days. During my college summer in Europe, the Chunnel train was not yet in existence. While the British rail system was covered by the Eurail Pass, the passage from the continent to Albion was not. There was no way I was going if there was an extra charge.

The Royal Family in the “good old days” (At Madame Tussaud’s in London. I love wax museums, and never miss one!)

Around the time of my last college spring break, my mother gifted me with enough free, rapidly expiring airline miles for two tickets to Europe. I could bring a companion. No catch. In what can only be described as a fit of temporary insanity, I invited Grandma. No, really, I was twenty one years old, and I went to London with my Grandma. I am expecting to be rewarded for this in my next life…

And so, I flew to New York, and Grandma and I set out on a cross-continental flight together. Our troubles started immediately when she set off a metal detector. The year was 1990, a kinder, gentler time when everyone could walk on to the departure gates, and TSA was only a vague concept—except in a case of an elderly, five feet tall woman who was bringing not only an apple for her long flight, but an accompanying knife wrapped in a handkerchief. Bizarrely, the TSA agent who confiscated Grandma’s best paring knife agreed to mail it back to her home address in Brooklyn. The potential loss of the knife caused Grandma considerable distress during our vacation, until we were informed by triumphant Grandpa, upon being picked up from our return flight, that the knife arrived safe and sound. No “How was your trip? How is London? Welcome home!”, but “Those bastards did not steal our knife after all!”

The flight itself was an unmitigated nightmare. Grandma, immeasurably energized by full access to me for the upcoming week, decided to start early on what we call “educating” me, but really the better term is “nagging”. I was treated to a seven-hour lecture about the various deficiencies of my character, my appearance, my behavior, my friends both male and female, and my overall prognosis for a productive life. As a graduating university senior heading to an Ivy League law school and holding down two jobs, I naively thought I might have had a right to feel sort of OK about myself. However, I was also overweight and single, two of the most cardinal of mortal sins in The World According to Grandma.

Holiday Inn London – Kensington Forum Hotel |Best Price Guaranteed |Kensington London Hotel (hikensingtonforumhotel.co.uk)

We were staying at the Forum Hotel, now Holiday Inn Kensington Forum. This is important, because this hotel is huge—900+ rooms and 27 stories. Upon arrival, after a sleepless night of “education”, I determined that I lost interest in my travel companion. We had a brief discussion and decided that, in order for each of us to preserve our own mental, emotional, and physical well-being, we will tour the city separately and only share sleeping quarters. I lived in a dorm—I could do it! Grandma was married for 45 years at that point—she could definitely do it! We each had our own money, room key, basics of the English language (some better than others), and I generously gave her one of my maps of London (this was when giant folding paper maps were all the rage). She stormed off. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Here is what I did next: (1) Called my mom as I still do during all important times, or really any time at all. She was supportive, as she generally tends to be. (2) Unpacked my suitcase and staked out my bed. (3) Took a shower, washed and blow-dried my hair, and changed clothes, because I needed a pick me up. (4) Opened the minibar and daringly consumed an adult beverage, because I needed a pick me up. (5) Ate a bar of chocolate, also from the minibar, because, well, isn’t it obvious? (6) Unfolded my giant paper map and determined that the first stop on my tour that day will be Harrod’s, which was the closest landmark to this hotel, and also made the most sense, given how the trip started.

The reason for these boring details is because I want to convey that I was only ready to depart the hotel quite a fair bit of time after Grandma. I mean, all of these activities took a while. I am not sure exactly how much, but long enough that when I heard a tentative knock at the door, I logically assumed that the day’s cleaning crew was arriving. Since this was my first time staying at a place fancy enough to be cleaned (and with a mini-bar—did I mention the minibar?), I grabbed my coat and rushed to the door, on my way toward my adventure in London, yelling encouragingly to whoever was behind the door that I am leaving and they can get down to business.

Behind the door was Grandma. All this time, she was trying to find her way out of the huge hotel, rode the elevator, stumbled on the underground garage, gift shop, and every other floor, but regrettably, never the lobby. She was exhausted, defeated, and ready to make peace.

Thus began my love affair with the West End… [The photo is not mine]

The rest of the week actually went reasonably well, all things considered. We walked a lot (some of it was because Grandma was always a tireless walker her entire life, never having learned how to drive), saw all the main sites, including a day trip to Windsor Castle (where Grandma concluded that the tiny medieval royal beds are far inferior to her Italianate suite back in Brooklyn), and experienced our first (but far from my last) West End musical (“Me and My Girl” at the Adelphi theater). In those days, London was still boasting its terrible cuisine, though to be fair, the two of us, a college student and a Soviet retiree, were decidedly not “foodies”. We ate at McDonald’s and were excited. Once we had pastries at a cafe and felt rather sophisticated. I bought six decks of cards for my collection. I took only twice as many photos. Every night, after Grandma fell asleep, I watched British TV and treated myself to a beverage and chocolate from the mini bar.

It was not my best trip to London, but it was a decent first encounter with an exciting city which I came to know well in subsequent decades. Later, there came many laughs, many discoveries, and many unforgettable theater experiences. This was the slightly inauspicious start.

One of the twelve photos I took. Seriously? What is it even?

Team Phantom

***Warning: this post contains plot spoilers. I do not want to discourage anyone from reading anything I write, but here it is: I will be divulging the plot of “Love Never Dies” below. To my three loyal readers—I think you already know this, so please read on!

Last Saturday I woke up to the words “The Phantom of the Opera is here!” thundering through my house. Being the musical lover that I am, I rolled out of bed, quite literally, and stumbled downstairs toward the source. Spouse was watching the Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber YouTube channel, The Shows Must Go On.

When I moved to New York City, “Phantom” was the hottest ticket in town. It was not even new by then, but the wait for tickets was two years. Two years, “Hamilton” fans! In those pre-internet days, I literally had to call the box office and be told that I can get on the wait list. I planned to be in NYC for three years, but I was also 21. Needless to say, I never got on a wait list, and never saw “Phantom” on Broadway. Instead, I continued to listen to the tape. I loved the soundtrack, and still do.

However, something always bothered me about “Phantom”. Plot is important to me (unless we are talking about “G&S” (https://oldladywriting.com/2020/03/29/it-is-a-glorious-thing/). The fact that Christine ends up with Raoul always seemed like a copout. Raoul is not that special, but he is handsome, and beautiful girls end up with handsome men and not with disfigured cavern dwellers. I realize that that’s the original story, but I also think that Sir Andrew can do whatever he wants to do. And guess what? A quarter of a century later, he did. “Love Never Dies” is a vindication of Team Phantom.

Seeing “Love Never Dies” was one of those unexpected transformative experiences that only live theater can give. We found ourselves in London for a night’s layover, and my only goal was to sleep in a pod. That was, by the way, absolutely terrible. You might think it would be cute to sleep in a box where you cannot even comfortably turn, as I did before I experienced this nonsense, but trust me—it is the worst. But I digress.

We had a few evening hours in London, so of course ran to Leicester Square to buy show tickets. “Love Never Dies”, the sequel to “Phantom”, seemed interesting. Little did we know, it was selling terribly and was already set to close. I am still sad about it. This is not only one of the most beautiful stories and musical works I have seen (“Beneath the Moonless Sky” and “Devil Takes the Hindmost” quartet are alone worth the price of admission), but it has also finally reconciled me to “Phantom” by redeeming (and ultimately martyring—and what can be more redeeming than that?) the seemingly superficial Christine.

Once I saw “Love Never Dies”, I have not been able to view “Phantom” the same way. Once you know that Raoul will end up a drunk and a gambler and a total anchor for Christine, their whole courtship in “Phantom” looks doomed. I kept wanting to tell Christine to just ditch him and stay with Phantom.

When I saw “Beneath a Moonless Sky” live on stage, it was so unexpected and so heartbreaking. Christine sang, “I loved you, I’d have followed anywhere you led”, and I just saw her in a completely different light, a woman beaten but unconquered by a bad marriage, full of regrets over a lost love, a woman who was prepared to follow her heart but who was given no choice in the matter and tried to do her best. And Angel of Music returns too late, because life is complicated…

I understand that a lot of the fans of the original story hated the fact that Christine dies in “Love”. But I think that no other solution would have worked. No one would have believed if she and Phantom stayed together and lived happily ever after, and no one would have believed if she stayed with that wastrel Raoul. Sorry, but she basically had to die—which makes the entire two-parter a great and tragic love story and ultimately elevates the original “Phantom”[*].

Now a word about the failed London production versus the revised Australian one, which was more successful. If you see “Love Never Dies” on official video, you will see the latter one—and I am sorry. Aside from the fact that I saw Ramin Karimloo as Phantom and Sierra Boggess in it, the West End version is superior in several subtle but key ways. First, the set is better—one of those rare instances where computer generated set works (and anyone who knows me knows that I do not love CGI on stage). The lights of Coney Island in Adelphi Theater were unforgettable! The entire show is just darker and more mysterious, which is absolutely what it needs to be.

Second, starting the show with Madame Giry and the Phantasma freaks reminiscing is much more intriguing and evocative of the start of “Phantom” (“The Coney Island Waltz/That’s the Place That You Ruined, You Fool!”), while starting the show with Phantom singing “Till I Hear You Sing” [Once More] is just too much foreshadowing. I am a firm believer that you just do not need to see Phantom in his mask until a few numbers in. You know he is coming, unless you have never seen or heard of him. In which case, you are in for an even bigger treat!

[*] Honorary mention goes to the amazing music box monkey that steals the show, according to my youngest son.