The Phantom

Last month, the week I moved to Charlotte in fact, I bought one balcony level, center stage ticket to see Phantom of the Opera. I think I spent around $80 for absolutely wonderful seating. Today, weeks later, was the day to watch, to sit in the theatre while actors & actresses dissolved into their characters, weaving an unbreakable spell for me. I sat wedged between two men: the first, a slight, scrawny man who was wearing a suit one size too big. He smelled pleasantly of cologne, heat and the cocktail he held. The man on the other side wore a flannel shirt and khaki pants. There I was in the middle of these two men in a little black dress and spiky heels. Interesting combination all the same. As the stage grew dark and the spotlights clicked on, I realized that the telling of this story could have come from an unlikely source: the chandelier. JD (my roommate) warned me about the chandelier, and to expect fireworks but I wasn't prepared for the pop! of the monstrous lighting fixture, or to watch it begin to fly and swing overhead. I was instantly enchanted by the story.

The artistry of The Phantom is something I haven't been witness to in a long time. The last play/musical I saw was Swing! back in 2002, I think. Is that really true? Thinking back I think so, but I think a lot so let me think about it. Regardless, the sheer mesmerization that occurred immediately was totally worth the money, the wait, the self consciousness of Jess in a little black dress and spiky black heels (which would put me at roughly 6'2". Oh my.), and worth everything. Immediately I was pushed and tugged back into another time, reminiscent of Poe or Shelley, back to the gothic romance of organs, candles, and eerie, disturbing music followed by daunting and haunting laughter of the phantom. In short, I was a kid in a gothic revival candy store. All I was missing was a skull shaped lollipop.

This Phantom was a menagerie of wonder, of creativity, of dark, forbidding love. In truth, I found Phantom to be one of the most truthful romances I've witnessed. I remember being about age 13 when my friend Abby flew to New York to visit her aunt, where they saw the Broadway production of Phantom. She came back singing "Music of the Night", and whenever I find myself humming benignly, I tend to be humming that. It's so melodramatic, tugging at something bittersweet inside. That's beauty, the connection between music and genuine feeling.

As Phantom took Christine past the lake to his home, I was mesmerized. But when he began to sing, a few small, hot tears welled up and slid down my face - I was so hopelessly moved, as though my heart and his were connected. I would venture to say that every person in the audience who was paying attention felt that same sort of tug. It was wonderful.

And when Phantom let Christine go at the end, he was so devastated and heart broken. I cried a few more tears. The romance of it all! Here's the thing: romance novels are stupid. They're unrealistic with their neatly tied happy endings. Stories like this, like Phantom, like Lolita (yes, I would go so far as to add Lolita here) are truth, at the core. There's a sad, sometimes horrible truth that comes with real love. I wanted to comfort the phantom, and to tell him it will all be fine, even though: a.) it wouldn't be fine; and b.) he's a murderous raving lunatic.

In the end, all I can say is that was the best $80 I ever spent, and I am throughly enchanted by the Phantom. Escaping into a dream world even for 2.5 hours was just what the Angel of Music ordered. Those 2+ hours will stay with me indefinitely. Bravo!