The Phantom of the Opera (Busan, 2023) — A Voice That Reshaped My Memory

I. Introduction: The Return to Phantom

I first saw The Phantom of the Opera in 2005 at the Majestic Theatre on Broadway — a deeply visceral, almost shocking experience. I remember leaving the theater in a daze, heart still pounding from the grandeur of the chandelier, the immersive score, and a voice that seemed to command the very walls of the house. Over the years, I returned — in 2009, 2015, and again in 2022 — chasing a certain resonance that seemed to fade with time. My most recent Broadway visit left me disillusioned; the performance felt tired, and even the Phantom’s voice, though technically sound, lost its impact due to an incoherent, underwhelming supporting cast and a dimmed theatrical atmosphere.

When I learned that Phantom would be staged in Korea again, this time in Busan, I wasn’t immediately eager. But when Julian Kim — a baritone whose voice I knew was strong — was cast in the title role, something stirred. At the time, I didn’t know the full range of his strengths and weaknesses; I only knew that he sang and acted well in operatic repertoire. I thought, If this voice could restore the feeling I lost, maybe it’s worth one more chance. What followed was not just one performance, but a personal rediscovery — one that spanned five Busan performances and reshaped my entire memory of this musical.

This review primarily focuses on Julian Kim’s Phantom. While I also saw performances by Cho Seung-woo, Jeon Dong-suk and Choi Jae-rim later in the role, it was Julian’s voice and interpretation that brought me back again and again. From this experience, I began to attend Korean licensed and original productions more actively, no longer waiting for Broadway visits to bring fulfillment. It became a turning point not just in my musical journey, but in the way I began writing about what I saw — and felt — for the first time.

II. The Dream Theatre: A Familiar Yet Transformed Space

The Dream Theatre in Busan is one of Korea’s newer venues, equipped to handle technically complex touring productions. The staging of Phantom here was nearly identical to the Broadway production — down to the set design, costumes, and chandelier mechanics. What differed, however, was the acoustic character of the venue and the energy flowing through the cast.

Over time, I sat in various locations — center balcony, left orchestra, and center stalls. The third-floor front row gave me what I now call the “truthful sound” — stripped of heavy reverb, every detail laid bare. It was here that I realized how much vocal delivery, seat acoustics, and mic mix affect immersion. The theater’s configuration allowed for crisp ensemble work at times but revealed imbalances in certain mid-level seats, especially early on. Thankfully, the sound design noticeably improved as the run progressed.

III. The Phantom: Julian Kim’s Voice as the Centerpiece

Julian Kim’s Phantom was not simply powerful — it was revelatory. From the moment his voice entered in The Mirror, he filled the auditorium with a baritone so full of color, weight, and precision that I found myself leaning in without realizing it. Unlike many musical theater Phantoms who approach the role with a tenor-like tone, Julian brought an operatic depth that added both gravitas and vulnerability.

In The Music of the Night, he began gently, his voice almost trembling with restraint. By the time he reached “Let your soul take you where you long to be,” his phrasing unfolded like velvet — not showy, but masterfully controlled. In later performances, the phrasing deepened even further; his breath was sometimes audibly strained in the best way, a musical choice that aligned perfectly with the Phantom’s desperation and yearning.

By The Point of No Return, his delivery was volcanic — desire seething beneath every word, his dynamic range perfectly paced. I have rarely heard a Phantom shift so naturally between seductive softness and explosive fury, all while retaining impeccable pitch and diction.

Julian’s acting evolved as well, especially from preview to later performances. He began to embody the Phantom with increasing nuance — each gesture, pause, and glance both deliberate and organic. His physical stillness often carried more emotional weight than exaggerated motion. In The Final Lair, when he finally broke down, it was as though the entire opera house held its breath with him.

Brief Notes on Other Phantoms

I also saw Cho Seung-woo and Jeon Dong-suk in the role. Cho’s portrayal had dramatic presence and theatrical charisma. His Phantom clearly reflected his own interpretation, marked by deliberate pauses in both dialogue and phrasing — often accommodated flexibly by the orchestra. However, on the day I attended, his vocal condition appeared compromised; some pitch issues were evident, and the overall vocal energy didn’t quite meet the role’s demand. (He later shared that he had been suffering from acute sinusitis, rhinitis, and a cold. His vocal condition returned to his usual level in the Seoul and Daegu runs.)

Jeon Dong-suk offered a more vocally stable performance, with elegant phrasing and a carefully shaped dramatic arc. His Phantom projected emotional intensity through large, trembling gestures that conveyed a physically fragile yet volatile state. Notably, in the final scene, he did not kneel when Christine left, but instead paced anxiously at center stage until she returned to give back the ring — a choice that offered a distinct take on the Phantom’s inner turbulence.

IV. Christine and Raoul: A Tale of Two Casts

Christine and Raoul were double cast throughout the Busan run.

Jisoo Sohn’s Christine was pure and crystalline — just as the Phantom might imagine her. Her acting felt slightly tentative at first, but as soon as she launched into Think of Me, beginning in a gentle murmur and building to confident brightness, I found myself smiling at the emergence of a new diva in 19th-century Paris. Her pitch, tone, and resonance were consistently on point, and Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again became a moment I awaited with growing anticipation — always rewarded beyond expectation. A beautiful singer, a beautiful Christine.

Eunhye Song, in contrast, brought a lighter, more expressive Christine with a long and stable upper register. Her mid-range, though at times unstable, was often offset by strong climaxes in major numbers. Her interpretation suggested a brave exterior masking inner fragility, but her short, loud nasal breath intakes at the start of phrases were noticeably distracting.

Song Won-geun’s Raoul was a pleasant surprise. His voice carried both power and warmth, and in All I Ask of You, his duet with Christine was balanced and sincere. The most memorable moment, however, was Wandering Child — the only time I’ve experienced all three voices (Julian Kim, Jisoo Sohn, and Song Won-geun) blending so seamlessly that it felt like a single organism breathing in harmony. It was a moment of vocal and emotional synergy that outshone even some Broadway casts I’ve heard.

Gunha Hwang’s Raoul was younger and visually striking. His thick baritone voice sometimes rivaled — or even overpowered — the Phantom’s, especially at the grave scene, which ironically made the opening auction scene ring truer when he appeared as the aged Raoul. His presence on stage drew gasps from the audience, and his curtain call was always met with audible admiration.

V. The Theater Experience: Acoustics and Immersion

Busan’s Dream Theatre, while visually impressive and technically capable, offered fluctuating acoustic results depending on seating. The third-floor center delivered remarkably “honest” sound, revealing every nuance in vocal and instrumental texture. The 12th-row left side, on the other hand, exposed minor timing inconsistencies and ensemble muddiness, particularly in group numbers like Notes/Prima Donna. Over time, however, sound balancing improved, and the orchestra-vocal blend became more cohesive.

Sightlines and staging were generally excellent. From higher seats, I could appreciate subtle transitions: Phantom vanishing behind statues, hand signals before the chandelier fall, even inconsistencies in blocking. These moments highlighted how meticulously timed and physically demanding the production was — and how easily it could break the illusion if even slightly misaligned.

VI. Growth Over Time: The Phantom’s Evolution

One of the greatest privileges of attending multiple performances was observing Julian Kim’s Phantom evolve. From preview to closing curtain, he delved deeper into the character’s fractured psyche and layered musicality. What began as a vocally secure portrayal became emotionally devastating.

I’m often distracted by overdone breath intakes in musical theater, especially when actors are trained for mic projection but lack natural flow. To my surprise, I hadn’t noticed this in Julian Kim — until The Point of No Return. There, a singular audible breath before a climactic phrase struck me not as a flaw but as a choice. It was desperation disguised as dominance, grief masked by control.

And when he sang, “You alone can make my song take flight,” I believed him.

VII. Final Reflection: A Voice That Pulled Me Back

I’ve seen Phantom many times, on both sides of the world. I’ve admired performances, been dazzled by effects, and even forgotten entire scenes when a production didn’t quite land. But in Busan, something rare happened. Julian Kim’s voice didn’t just sing the Phantom — it understood him. It gave the role back its mystery, its ache, and its majesty. For the first time in years, I found myself not analyzing — just feeling.

This wasn’t nostalgia. It was renewal.

When the music faded, I sat for a moment longer than usual, unwilling to let go. And then I smiled — because I knew I would follow that voice again. The Seoul and Daegu performances may have brought further insight, but Busan was the origin of something rare: the rediscovery of a masterpiece through one singer’s lens.

And for me, that was more than enough.