My first impression of the Sondheim Theatre was its outstanding sound. The speakers were so well concealed that they were almost invisible, which made the scale of the sound even more impressive. It seemed to fill the entire auditorium without revealing where it came from.

The theatre also featured a proscenium specifically adapted for this production. An entrance extended from stage left toward the front of the audience, allowing actors to move closer to the stalls. On stage right, a balcony was built for the Thénardiers' appearance during "One Day More," while even the small fountain where Jean Valjean drinks after his release from prison extended the world of the stage beyond the traditional fourth wall. The design expanded the performance space just enough without feeling intrusive.

The orchestra pit projected only about 50 cm beyond the front row, and even the conductor was visible only from the head up. As a result, the audience could clearly see the orchestra while the distance between the stage and the front row remained less than a meter. I watched the production twice from the front row—slightly right of center during my first visit, and immediately to the conductor's left during the second. Normally, sitting that close can create an uneven listening experience, but the front-fill speakers were so well designed and balanced that both performances sounded exceptional.

Above all, Ian McIntosh's Jean Valjean dominated both performances. His singing was noticeably more stable during my second visit than it had been on Saturday, which may have been partly because the Saturday performance was his second show of the day following a matinee.

As prisoner 24601, his appearance alone told the story. His rough makeup, cropped hair, and two deliberately shaved patches on his head created a frightening image of a man hardened by years of imprisonment. His face radiated distrust, resentment, and suppressed anger. He looked like someone who genuinely might return to prison if released back into society.

His singing reflected that state of mind as well. He frequently separated individual syllables while maintaining long musical phrases, creating a sense of emotional instability without sacrificing vocal control.

Everything changed after the Bishop returned the silver candlesticks and "Valjean's Soliloquy" began.

Although the makeup remained exactly the same, his face seemed to become that of a completely different person. The moment he looked into the distance and began to understand human kindness and divine grace, his entire presence softened. He built the song with remarkable restraint before unleashing its emotional climax with tremendous power. Watching one character transform so completely within only a few minutes was one of the most convincing portrayals of Jean Valjean I have seen.

His performance of "Bring Him Home" was equally impressive. The final phrases were sustained in a single, beautifully controlled breath, demonstrating extraordinary breath management and phrasing. During my second visit I watched much of the number through my opera glasses, focusing on his facial expressions and mouth movements. Rather than overwhelming the audience with sheer volume, he drew everyone in through careful vocal control and expressive phrasing.

His acting was just as detailed as his singing. The rough, aggressive walk of the prisoner gradually evolved into the composed bearing of Monsieur Madeleine, and his physical movements subtly changed again as Valjean aged. The heavy sound of locking his front gate, the quiet expression on his face as he watched the sleeping Marius at the barricade, and the physical struggle of forcing open the iron gate in the sewer were all small details that helped build a completely believable character.

During my second performance, several of Valjean's parole papers landed in front of the audience, and I managed to pick up a few of them. Later that evening, my colleague waited at the stage door and had Ian McIntosh autograph one of them for me.

Oliver Savile's Javert formed the perfect counterpart to Ian McIntosh's Valjean. Together they anchored the entire production.

His diction was remarkably clear, almost as if I were listening to the cast recording. He articulated every consonant with exaggerated precision, making every line easy to understand even from the front row. His intonation was consistently secure, and his rich baritone projected effortlessly throughout the theatre. Just as impressive were his cold, arrogant expressions and the unmistakable sense that Javert considered himself morally superior to everyone around him.

The greatest transformation came after Valjean spared his life.

At first, Javert appeared almost defiant toward God, utterly convinced that his own rigid sense of justice represented divine truth. But the instant Valjean released him, that certainty collapsed. His expression changed into one of genuine terror, as though he had suddenly realized that everything he had believed about justice, law, and morality had been built upon a false foundation. In that moment, it felt as if Javert had already died long before stepping into the Seine.

From that point onward, the production subtly added more reverberation to his voice, giving his lower register even greater depth and resonance. The sound design amplified the feeling that death was slowly drawing closer, making his final scenes all the more haunting.

Watching this transformation through my opera glasses from the front row made it even more striking. What initially seemed like the despair of a defeated policeman instead became the complete collapse of an entire worldview.

Joe Griffiths-Brown's Enjolras was another standout. From the moment he began singing at the Café Musain—"The time is near! So near it's stirring the blood in their veins!"—his voice carried both authority and conviction. He immediately established himself as the natural leader of the student revolutionaries.

The entire student ensemble sounded excellent during "Do You Hear the People Sing?" In particular, Feuilly's line, "The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France!" resonated through the auditorium with tremendous power. It has always been one of my favorite moments in the score, and this performance made it even more stirring.

One enjoyable aspect of this production was discovering the actors' multiple roles. Joe Griffiths-Brown first appeared much earlier as the man who threw Jean Valjean's bag at him after his release from prison. Then, after Enjolras had died on the barricade, he reappeared during Cosette and Marius's wedding as one of the waiters. Seeing the same actor cheerfully dancing around the stage only moments after mourning Enjolras's death was unexpectedly hilarious. The production used these multiple roles effectively, allowing the atmosphere to shift instantly from tragedy to celebration.

Grantaire delivered some of the most interesting background acting in the production.

While the soldiers' warning song echoed behind the barricade, he lay completely flat on the ground. Once the shooting began, he continued to crouch behind the barricade while the other students fought. Rather than looking like a committed revolutionary, he seemed like an ordinary young man who had simply followed his friends into the uprising.

Throughout the performance he appeared increasingly dependent on alcohol, frequently offering drinks to Gavroche while joking with him like an older brother. Their relationship felt warmer and more affectionate than in any production of Les Misérables I have previously seen.

When Gavroche was shot, Grantaire did not even think to pick up his rifle. Instead, he rushed toward the boy and held him in complete despair. Only after seeing his friends fall one after another—and believing Marius to be dead as well—did he finally climb onto the barricade himself to face death.

Rather than suddenly becoming heroic, it felt as though he had simply lost every reason to survive. His decision to die alongside his friends became emotionally convincing because of the careful character development throughout the performance.

I was fortunate that Sammy Jones played Gavroche in both performances.

His singing was clean and secure, and his acting was remarkably mature for such a young performer. In many ways, Gavroche felt like the true protagonist of the story—the one who genuinely ruled the streets of Paris, exactly as he proudly sings himself.

Watching a child defiantly raise his middle finger at those in power, shout "Vive la France!", and run out to collect ammunition before being killed felt utterly devastating. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the entire world had stopped.

Sammy Jones portrayed the historical spirit embodied by Gavroche with extraordinary confidence and emotional intelligence. Although he was the youngest performer on stage, he carried himself with remarkable authority, making Gavroche feel like someone who had survived the harsh realities of Paris long before the revolution began.

After Gavroche's death, it no longer felt as though only the barricade had fallen. It felt as if the streets of Paris themselves had suddenly lost their vitality.

Martha Kirby's Fantine offered a noticeably different interpretation from the actresses I had seen on the North American tour.

In San Francisco, Juliette Redden portrayed Fantine with a resonant mezzo voice, while Lindsay Heather Pearce brought a brighter, stronger vocal color and a greater sense of determination. Both actresses fought back aggressively during the factory scene and initially regarded Valjean with suspicion.

Martha Kirby's Fantine, however, felt far more helpless and emotionally broken. During the factory scene she was almost completely overwhelmed by those around her, and when she pleaded, "Please do not mock me," to Valjean, she seemed like someone whose final trace of dignity had already been stripped away.

The death scene also reflected this different interpretation.

In San Francisco, Fantine appeared to look past Valjean toward the vision of Cosette waiting for her. In London, her grief was expressed much more openly through larger physical movements. During my first performance, I initially thought those gestures were somewhat exaggerated.

By the second performance, however, my opinion had completely changed.

This production consistently encouraged every performer to communicate through expressive physical acting, even in the smallest gestures and facial expressions. Once I understood the production's overall style, Fantine's final moments no longer felt excessive. Instead, they became one more example of the meticulous attention to detail that defined the entire performance.

Lucia McLaughlin's Cosette was classic typecasting in the best sense of the word. Her appearance and gentle vocal quality perfectly matched the role of the sheltered young woman whom Valjean had devoted his life to protecting.

One aspect that has continued to stand out to me across almost every production of Les Misérables, however, is the vocal style typically assigned to Cosette. She sang with a very tight, rapid vibrato—a characteristic I have noticed consistently in productions around the world.

Personally, I have always preferred a purer, straighter tone.

Cosette is, in many ways, comparable to Johanna in Sweeney Todd, another role written for a high soprano. Johanna's narrow vibrato complements her fragile mental state and emotional instability. With Cosette, however, I have never found the same dramatic justification for that vocal color. This is not a criticism of Lucia McLaughlin herself; rather, it seems to reflect a vocal aesthetic that the creative team has consistently favored. It is simply a matter of personal preference.

Thiago Phillip Felizardo's Marius and Jess Folley's Éponine were both excellent singers. Their intonation remained secure throughout the performance, and both delivered the more dramatic numbers with impressive power. In quieter songs, however, I occasionally found Marius's bent phrasing and Éponine's slightly nasal, contemporary vocal production somewhat distracting.

Again, this felt less like an issue with the performers themselves than with the broader casting and musical direction of recent English-language productions. Just as Cosette is often encouraged to sing with a tightly controlled vibrato, these stylistic choices appeared to reflect the production's overall musical aesthetic rather than individual interpretation.

Chris Kiely's Thénardier and Mina Anwar's Madame Thénardier once again became audience favorites.

Although they are unmistakably villains, the characters are so brilliantly written that almost every interpretation remains entertaining.

This West End production emphasized their nature as shameless, streetwise swindlers who had long abandoned any concern for dignity or respectability. By comparison, the North American tour's Thénardiers still seemed to retain a faint desire to preserve appearances. Here, that illusion had completely disappeared.

Chris Kiely demonstrated impeccable comic timing, drawing laughter with almost every appearance, while Mina Anwar grounded the duo with a larger-than-life performance that perfectly balanced her husband's frantic energy.

It was hardly surprising that they received some of the loudest applause during the curtain call.

The ensemble as a whole was outstanding.

Every performer sang with confidence, and even the smallest supporting roles felt like fully realized individuals rather than anonymous background characters.

During "One Day More," one of the female ensemble members standing immediately to Enjolras's right delivered a thrilling, crystal-clear soprano line that immediately caught my attention. Later, in "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables," the same performer blended into the ensemble with an entirely different vocal color, demonstrating impressive versatility.

Moments like these reminded me that the enduring strength of Les Misérables lies not only in its principal cast but in the remarkable consistency of the company as a whole.

Elle Robson's Little Cosette projected exactly the kind of delicate innocence the role requires. Her soft voice and timid presence made it easy to understand why Valjean devoted himself to protecting her.

Teddie Harper's Young Éponine, despite having no spoken lines, left an unexpectedly strong impression.

She smiled brightly whenever she looked at her parents, only to turn toward Cosette with an immediate expression of jealousy and resentment. The contrast happened in an instant. Without speaking a single word, she revealed both a child longing for her parents' affection and the jealousy that would later define the adult Éponine.

It was a remarkably effective piece of silent acting.

Looking back, my impression of the production changed significantly between my two visits.

During the first performance, I occasionally felt that some of the acting choices were overly emphatic. Fantine's death, the students' reactions, and many of the small background gestures initially seemed exaggerated.

After seeing the production a second time, however, I realized that nearly every one of those details had been carefully planned.

The seemingly excessive expressions, movements, and reactions all served a dramatic purpose. By the end of the performance, everything fit together with remarkable precision, like the gears of an intricate clock.

What had first appeared excessive instead revealed itself to be one of the production's greatest strengths.