After 30 Years: Finally Seeing the Phantom in Singapore

 

After 30 Years: Finally Seeing the Phantom in Singapore

It took thirty years—three decades of waiting, hoping, and holding on to the dream. I had first fallen in love with The Phantom of the Opera as a teenager. There was something in the music, the mystery, and the melancholy that called to me, something timeless and dramatic that felt like it was written just for the kind of heart I had. The haunting melody of “The Music of the Night” stayed with me through the years, tucked somewhere deep in my soul, waiting patiently. I dreamed of seeing it live, of being surrounded by the velvet darkness of a grand theatre, watching the story unfold with that iconic chandelier above me. But life, as it often does, got in the way. Responsibilities, children, careers, and reality took centre stage, and my phantom dream waited quietly in the wings.

Then, out of nowhere, my daughter surprised me with tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera live in Singapore. After thirty years, I was finally going to see the story that had lived in my imagination come to life on stage. The moment was made even more special by the fact that it was her gift to me—her way of honouring something I had loved long before she was born. There was something poetic about it, really: that the next generation would be the one to bring my dream full circle.

Walking into the theatre, I felt like that teenager again—heart pounding, wide-eyed, filled with excitement and wonder. The orchestra began to play, and the overture sent shivers down my spine. I could feel the anticipation in the room, a shared breathlessness that united everyone present in that moment. And when the curtains rose and the story began, I was completely captivated.

The musical itself is nothing short of a masterpiece. Set in the grandeur of the Paris Opera House in the 19th century, the story follows Christine Daaé, a young soprano who is unknowingly being tutored by the mysterious Phantom who lives in the catacombs beneath the theatre. The Phantom is a brilliant but tormented man, disfigured and hidden from the world, who becomes obsessed with Christine. His love for her is intense, dark, and consuming. Christine, torn between the Phantom and her childhood friend and love, Raoul, is caught in a web of music, power, beauty, and fear.

Watching the story unfold live was an emotional experience. I had always known the plot, the songs, the characters. But seeing it performed in real time—feeling the Phantom’s anguish, Christine’s confusion, and Raoul’s determination—made everything so much more vivid and real. The actors were phenomenal. Christine’s voice was like crystal—pure and soaring—while the Phantom carried the weight of heartbreak and madness with every line he sang. His presence on stage was magnetic. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I didn’t want to.

And then, of course, came that moment—the one I had waited decades for. The chandelier scene. It’s one of the most iconic in musical theatre, and for good reason. As the Phantom makes his presence known in the opera house, chaos erupts, and the enormous chandelier begins to swing and crash to the stage in a shower of sparks and light. I knew it was coming, but nothing prepared me for the rush of adrenaline, the gasp that left my lips, or the goosebumps that erupted across my arms. Sitting in the audience, holding my daughter’s hand, I was absolutely spellbound. It was theatrical magic at its finest—timing, lighting, sound, music, and emotion colliding into a moment that will live in my memory forever.

I kept glancing at my daughter during the show, my heart swelling with gratitude. She knew me so well. She knew how much this meant to me. And I knew this was more than just a night out—it was a gift of the deepest kind. A shared experience that connected us not just as mother and daughter, but as women, as dreamers, as lovers of stories.

Somewhere in the midst of all this emotion, I found myself laughing inwardly. Because truly, if I’m being honest, I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for men like the Phantom. Strange, broken, misunderstood—those are the ones who always got to me. There’s something intoxicating about mystery, about darkness, about brilliance laced with pain. Whether it was the Beast before he turned into the prince, the brooding vampire over the sweet human boy, or the tortured genius lurking beneath the opera house—I always fell for the ones hiding behind masks, the ones who weren’t conventionally “safe.” I suppose it’s part of my makeup. Something in me has always believed that love could see through scars, that beauty can live inside the beast.

Of course, the Phantom is a complex character—deeply flawed, even dangerous. His obsession leads him to commit terrible acts. And yet, despite his actions, he is not without sympathy. His pain, his longing, his genius—they all make him human. And in a strange, uncomfortable way, I saw parts of myself in him. The desire to be loved for who we are, the fear of rejection, the ache of isolation—all of it resonated. It’s what makes *The Phantom of the Opera* so timeless. It isn’t just about love; it’s about longing, acceptance, and the shadows we all carry.

As the final scene unfolded—Christine placing the Phantom’s ring in his palm, choosing compassion over fear, and then walking away—I felt tears prick at my eyes. There was such sorrow in his solitude, but also such grace in her kindness. It wasn’t a happy ending, not in the traditional sense. But it was powerful, poignant, and beautiful in its own way.

When the cast took their final bows and the audience rose to its feet in thunderous applause, I stood too, clapping until my palms tingled. I wasn’t just applauding the performance—I was applauding the journey. My journey. The one that began thirty years ago with a song on a cassette tape, and ended with me, standing beside my daughter in a theatre in Singapore, heart full and soul singing.

Seeing The Phantom of the Opera live was more than I ever imagined it could be. It brought closure to a dream, opened new doors of emotion, and gave me a moment I will cherish forever. It reminded me that some things are worth the wait. That theatre has the power to heal, to transport, to awaken the forgotten parts of ourselves. That sometimes, our daughters will hand us the dreams we once let go of. And that even now, after all these years, I’m still a little bit in love with the strange men in shadows, the broken ones who sing from the dark.

So thank you, Phantom, for waiting for me. And thank you, my dearest daughter, for bringing me home to him.