Notre Dame de Paris — A Monument of Movement and Myth

I attended Notre Dame de Paris expecting a conventional musical, but what I encountered was something far more sculptural and poetic. It unfolded less like a narrative than a sensory monument — built on repetition, acrobatics, and mythic longing. Not driven by emotional variation or musical evolution, the show leaned heavily on theme and staging, with moments that impressed not through storytelling alone, but through sheer visual and kinetic impact.

The staging was stunning. The modular set of geometric panels evoked the cathedral itself — rigid, shifting, monumental. Acrobats descended on ropes like climbers scaling a vertical myth. Dancers swung inside bells like human clappers, embodying the very sound of the cathedral. Towers rolled across the stage, likely moved by hidden performers, extending the loneliness of Quasimodo into space. The choreography activated every plane of the theater, and the visual symbolism — squares, cages, and the singular roundness of bells — underscored themes of entrapment and resonance.

Musically, the show was defined by repetition. Key motifs echoed relentlessly, sometimes rising by a step, grasping at a release that never came. Riccardo Cocciante's melodies were strong, and the percussion thundered, but unlike the layered evolutions of Claude-Michel Schönberg (Les Misérables), Cocciante's score circled more than it climbed. Yet the central theme, "Le Temps des Cathédrales," soared. It carried the weight of history and sorrow with elegance and grandeur.

I saw two different Esmeraldas. One, classically trained and vocally strong, lacked the fluid sensuality essential to the character. She moved like a statue, distant from the essence of Esmeralda’s untamable spirit. The other, vocally less polished, delivered a magnetic performance through gesture and presence. Her freedom was palpable, her danger believable. Ironically, the actor who played Fleur-de-Lys — a role defined by restraint — is someone I’ve seen exude sensuality with ease elsewhere. The miscasting diminished the contrast between the two women.

Frollo was perhaps the most compelling figure. Like a more nuanced Judge Turpin from Sweeney Todd, he embodied repressed desire and moral decay. His humanity made him disturbing: he was not a villain of exaggeration, but one of realism and inner torment. Hugo never portrayed Frollo as simply evil — his downfall is that he knows he's falling and cannot stop. The production wisely preserved his complexity.

Phoebus and Fleur-de-Lys were disturbingly modern. Phoebus, seduced by Esmeralda, abandoned her at the first sign of risk. Fleur-de-Lys, cold and entitled, demanded Esmeralda’s execution with chilling resolve. Neither was a monster in the Gothic sense, but both were terrifying in their moral indifference.

The trio between Phoebus, Esmeralda, and Fleur-de-Lys was a highlight. The staging showed Phoebus physically diminished between the two women, his indecision rendered visible by light and space. It was theatrical storytelling at its most potent: emotion told through posture and design.

Quasimodo, curiously, arrives late in this review — yet he may be Hugo’s greatest creation. The actor's physical performance (dragging a foot, hunched by padding) was effective, but it was the internal arc that moved me: his innocence, his bravery, his reverence for beauty, and his fury at betrayal. He evoked sympathy not through pity, but through courage.

Much of the music faded into the background for me, but the dancers and acrobats brought it back to life. They filled the musical gaps with movement that was lyrical, defiant, and alive. One b-boy, in particular, executed every complex move with precision, earning my deepest admiration. He made poetry visible through muscle.

The story’s framing of France’s historical treatment of the Roma people gave it contemporary relevance. Like Verdi’s Attila, which humanizes the outsider, Notre Dame de Paris offers Esmeralda not just as a symbol of desire, but of exclusion. That willingness to self-critique gives the work depth beyond entertainment. It reflects a culture grappling with its own myths.

Gringoire deserves a note of his own. Like a Gothic flourish, he seems plot-irrelevant but soul-essential. A poet without power, an observer without agency, he reminds us that not all witnesses need to act to leave a mark.

At curtain call, I was prepared. I had seen YouTube clips where the cast invited the audience to sing along. I had memorized the lyrics. But no invitation came. Still, when I returned with my son, I handed him the chorus. During the bows, a deep baritone voice rose behind me. It was his. We sang anyway. Sometimes, the best moments are the ones you create for yourself.

In the end, Notre Dame de Paris isn’t just a musical. It’s a myth performed in motion, a cathedral built from light, longing, and human bodies. A monument that sings with sorrow, and echoes long after the curtain falls.