Have you ever witnessed a performance so honest, so exposed, it left you speechless?
I have.
December 23, 1990, the day Jacques Williams died.
Let me back up.
In the final days of the 1990s, I bought my sister Phantom of the Operatickets as an early Christmas present. The blockbuster musical was in the middle of its wildly successful Los Angeles run at the Ahmanson Theatre.
Robert Guillaume Dons the Phantom Mask
The production had opened with Tony Award winner Michael Crawford as the Phantom. When Crawford departed, Robert Guillaume, best known as the cynical butler-turned-politician Benson, was cast as the tortured genius beneath the mask.
Most people didn’t know Guillaume could sing.
Theater fans knew better.
Before becoming a TV star, Guillaume built an impressive stage résumé. He appeared on Broadway in Purlie, Finian’s Rainbow, and starred as Nathan Detroit in the all-Black revival of Guys and Dolls.
He received glowing reviews for his Phantom. I’d seen him early in the run and felt his rich baritone and commanding stage presence fit the role perfectly.
On December 23, my sister and I arrived at the Music Center surrounded by Christmas decorations and holiday crowds. Across the plaza, families dressed in their holiday best headed to The Nutcracker.
However, we had a date with the Phantom.
When Guillaume took the stage in act one of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, the audience showered him with thunderous applause. His voice sounded glorious in his early scenes, but as the matinee unfolded, his performance transcended into something astounding.
By the time he sang “The Music of the Night,” Guillaume’s performance had acquired an extraordinary intensity. Every lyric seemed profoundly personal. Every note felt painfully alive.
By the end of Act One, Guillaume brought a chilling desperation to the “All I Ask of You” Reprise, capturing the Phantom’s anger and growing despair as he unraveled before our eyes.
At intermission, my sister and I agreed that we were witnessing an extraordinary performance.It felt like we were watching a Hall of Fame pitcher throw a perfect game… one we would discuss for years to come.
In the show’s final moments, as the Phantom realizes Christine will never love him, Guillaume seemed to strip away every layer separating actor from character. His anguish was raw… gut-wrenching. As he sobbed with heartbreak, the audience cried with him.
When the curtain fell, I wiped away tears… certain it was the greatest performance I’d ever seen in a musical.
A week later, I learned the significance of that day.
Guillaume was carrying an unimaginable burden during that matinee. Earlier that day, his son, Jacques Williams, had died from complications related to AIDS.
He could have canceled his performance. No one would have judged him for it.
Instead, the actor found refuge in the stage. He buried his grief in the soul of a broken artist tormented by the harsh realities of life.
Suddenly, everything about that special performance made sense.
The grief. The desperation. The vulnerability. None of it had been manufactured. For three hours, Robert Guillaume poured the worst day of his life into one of theater’s most demanding roles.
He let us witness his broken heart.
Actors spend their careers trying to create moments that feel real.
That night, Robert Guillaume wasn’t pretending.
He wasn’t acting.
He was grieving.
And he shared his unbearable pain with over 2,000 theatergoers.
More than three decades have passed since that day. I’ve seen hundreds of performances since then. I’ve witnessed breathtaking voices, dazzling choreography, and unforgettable star turns.
But I’ve never again seen an actor reveal so much of himself to an audience.
That’s why I still remember the date.
December 23, 1990.
I thought I was watching an actor give the performance of a lifetime.
A week later, I realized I had watched a father survive the worst day of his life.
