Phantom, Revisited

My previous review dealt with a fantastic text losing its power of presentation through mediocre direction and haphazard performances. To counteract it, however: an account of the other show I saw in London this week - a show with quite a weak script, if stronger score, that through splendid performances and at-times equally splendid direction proved the more effective piece. The Phantom of the Opera, the tale of a lovely opera singer abducted by a mysteriously tormented masked musician, may well be a chestnut, an overripe outlet for adolescent Byronic yearnings everywhere in the decades before Edward Cullen. But despite the somewhat dated melodrama of the book, and discordances of the otherwise impressive score (The titular song, for example, is a billowy rock-ballad, that works hard to out-camp its four minutes of smoke machine.), the current production manages to bring subtlety to Andrew Lloyd Webber. That is indeed a feat.

Given that so much is constant from the original 1986 production - with the exception of the lyrics, some of which have been updated with equal frequency for the better and for the worse - and that a certain degree of bombast is necessary for the tourist market, it is difficult to imagine how on earth the production could possibly still be good. And indeed there are moments, such as when the Phantom plays upon his keyboard in a shimmering gold jacket more Elton John than Gaston Leroux, or takes intermittent pauses in murdering the unfortunate Joseph Buquet to swoop his cape flourishingly from the shadows, that are little more than panem et circenses: the production's more extreme attempts at crowd-pleasing. But Harold Prince's direction at times takes its cues from the opulence of the Second Empire, not the Bonfire of the Vanities, and it is when the production loses its '80s cheese in favor of gilded decadence that a perfect union of excess and subtlety is reached. So for every "Phantom of the Opera," with smoke machines, rock bellowing, candles, and a boat (a scene that I will confess was my favorite in childhood, but can no longer quite subsume myself into), there is a "Masquerade" - an exquisitely choreographed ensemble piece that captures the grandeur of the Paris of imagination. Worthy mention must be given too to the three operas-within-operas presented - Lloyd Webber slyly manages to parody three distinct styles of opera, and Prince matches this excellently with slices of the pompously antiquarian "Hannibal," the bedroom-farce "Il Muto," and the Phantom's chillingly modern "Don Juan Triumphant". The second act, in particular, was splendid - having been toned down after the debacle of the shattered chandelier, much of the scenes are psychological rather than spectacular, as the members of the Opera Populaire deal with the looming presence of the Opera Ghost.

Much of the credit to this can be ascribed to the performances. Ramin Karimloo's "Phantom" refuses the sympathy of his audience with defiant integrity; his Phantom, however tormented, however in love, is nonetheless a mad and grossly disfigured murderer - his voice, alternating a lovely tenor and a harsh scream, the only part of him capable of sublime expression. He does not play into the simplistic fantasy found in the execrable 2004 film version, in which Gerald Butler played a cuddly antihero who simply wanted to be loved. Rather, his psychosis is palpable; we fear him even as his music thrills us, and Christine's visceral terror is indeed well founded. But it is Gina Beck whose performance outweighs even his. A trained actress, not a singer, Beck nevertheless has a lovely voice certainly capable of the role. But it is the creativity with which Beck approaches the role - which could so easily devolve into orgasmic scream queen, as did Emmy Rossum's performance in the aforementioned film - that makes her performance so astounding. Beck has choices to make about Christine's characterization - her feelings about the Phantom pre-"All I Ask of You" are left vague in the book itself - and she makes them: she allows us to see her initial curious attraction to the Phantom, melded with pity and uncertainty, and her passion for his music in the first act, before decisively recoiling with disgust after his murder of Buquet - her fascination, Beck tells us, only goes so far. Her torment in the second act is equally nuanced - this is not a woman torn between sexual repression and fulfillment, as some more Romantic interpretations would have it, but a woman toward between horror at the individual and fascination with the music, and a very personal sense of betrayal at the gap between the two. The second act duet between them, "The Point of No Return," is a perfect example of this brilliance - with each verse, Beck changes tack, alternatively testing, teasing, trapping, and tearing from her admirer, as Karimloo, surprisingly audible under layers of veil, manages to match her varied intensity without any use of his face or most of his body. As for the rest of the cast - Simon Bailey's Raoul is hindered by unfortunate sideburns, alas, Heather Jackson is an effectively chilling Madame Giry, and Barry James and Gareth Snook serve their purpose as comic foils Messieurs Firmin and Andre, respectively, with preening gusto.

The music, of course, is generally excellent - sensual and operatic, yet eminently melodic and memorable. It may not be true opera, naturally, but what it is is good and, in the case of songs like "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again," Christine's ode to her deceased father, and "The Point of No Return," at times even brilliant. It is a testament to the talents of the cast and to the skill of the director that a play this old, and this known for eighties bombast, can still invoke passion at the music of the night.