Misunderstood Masterpieces: Phantom Of The Paradise
Posted by Will Helm on 10.25.2005
…or, What’s a Little Plagiarism Between Friends!!?
My friends, unfortunately, I believe that, since this is the final week of October, it is time for Horror Movie Mania 2005 to take its final bow. Of course, all of you regular readers know that this means that this column contains a jaunt into the lighter side of horror and what better way to celebrate that than with a cult-classic horror rock opera? Yes, you read that right.
The history of the “rock opera” – a totally or near-totally musical drama set to rock n’ roll – begins formally in 1969 with The Who’s grandiose and spectacular concept album Tommy. The genre quickly moved to the theater with the premiere of Jesus Christ Superstar – composed by Andrew Lloyd Webber (remember that name for future reference) – in 1971. The film version of that musical, directed by Norman Jewison, debuted in 1973, marking the introduction of the genre to the silver screen. While at this point the “rock opera” seems a hackneyed and, at times, over-used concept, the 1970s marked the heyday of this musical form, both onstage and onscreen. For example, in 1975 alone were the premieres of Ken Russell’s bizarre, star-studded film version of The Who’s Tommy and perhaps one of the most legendary musical cult-classics ever made – and NOT the subject of this column . . . in case you remembered the teaser from last week – The Rocky Horror Picture Show. While that film, a bomb in its time, has become one of the ultimate cult-classics, there is a more obscure cult classic that precedes it by a year, a rock opera which features quite a few antecedents from great literature and to The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Andrew Lloyd Webber, a remarkably dark and moody plot, lots of camp, and an Oscar nomination: Phantom of the Paradise.
Even though it is a fairly obscure cult classic, Phantom of the Paradise boasts a quite respectable pedigree. Written and directed by Brian DePalma (last seen in these pages with the badly translated “erotic thriller” Femme Fatale) and scored by diminutive songsmith Paul Williams – which garnered the composer an Oscar nod – Phantom of the Paradise calls on two great works of literature for its themes and the bulk of its plotlines. The first plot, perhaps obvious from the title, stems from Gaston Leroux’s 1910 horror novel Le Fantôme de L’Opéra (The Phantom of the Opera); it is the tale of a deformed genius who attempts to court a young, nubile opera singer with the power of his music and is thwarted by her hunky boyfriend. The second, underlying motif – featured in the film and in Leroux’s novel – comes from the German legend of Faust, dramatized most famously by Christopher Marlowe in The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s in Faust. In this terrible tale, a knowledge-craving doctor makes a pact with the Devil in which he trades his soul for an education in everything; as is usual with deals with Old Nick himself, the doctor ends up the loser in the bargain. And just how do they all fit in with a rock opera from 1974 . . . and what about the aforementioned plagiarism? Wait and see, dear readers, for all shall be revealed in time . . . and that time is now!
Because, I suppose, this does have a somewhat science-fiction element to it, the film begins with a mysterious yet familiar voice-over to explain the situation to us viewers. Hmm . . . where do I know that voice from? Let me check for a second . . . oh, wait! It’s Rod Serling! We are entering a dimension not of sight or sound, but of rock music, because – according to everyone’s favorite purveyor of horrific irony – this is the story of an enigmatic musician named Swan (Williams). Like rock-club impresario Lou Graham before him, Swan rides the backs of his ‘50s nostalgia band The Juicy Fruits – I guess back then that meant a totally different thing – in his quest to build the ultimate rock venue. While Swan sits unseen in his own private box of the club, The Juicy Fruits – or, more appropriately, Fake Sha-Na-Na – play a gig for a bunch of loudly screaming girls.
Just like any good ‘50s nostalgia act, the lead singer of The Juicy Fruits breaks down into a monologue in the middle of the song . . . with an accent reminiscent of Tony Montana. Well, Brian DePalma did direct Scarface, so I guess it makes sense. While his bandmates pantomime various vices with each other onstage, the lead singer eloquently exclaims some sob story about his sister or some other nonsense. Whatever, dude. Meanwhile, outside, some guy pastes the name of a random pianist over The Juicy Fruits’ ads. Back inside, the band – while still “playing” their instruments – proceeds to act out everything the frontman sings about, including drug use, rampant sex, and other fun things like that. After their performance concludes, the band and the audience stand in silence and, collectively, look up to Swan’s box. When Swan finally approves, the crowd goes wild . . . and then they go home. Ah, there’s nothing like forming the musical tastes of nubile sheep.
While the stage crew prepare for another performance later in the evening, some road manager guy, Arnold Philbin (George Memmoli), complains to Swan about his last act; it seems that some chick singer went schizo on him and he sued her for breach of contract. Oddly enough, he lost the case – this must have been the era before record companies ruled the universe like they do now – so he wants REVENGE with the help of Swan. Hmm . . . I didn’t know it was Swan’s daughter’s wedding day. Who’s going to come in next? Johnny Fontane? Down on the stage, some guy (William Finley) who probably came in 3rd in that year’s Marvin Hamlish look-a-like contest sidles up to the piano and begins crooning like an ivory-tickling Bob Dylan. Well, if he could be freewheelin’, then why can’t he be ivory-tickling too? Swan, always open to adopting – and exploiting – new artists, digs what the guy is belting out . . . even though our ersatz Marvin appears to have seizures while he’s singing. OK, forget about Bob Dylan; I guess he’s more of a Joe Cocker.
After fake Marvin finishes up his little number, Swan sends Arnold – fitting, as he’s a greasy pig – down to meet with the mysterious pianist. We learn, from Marvin himself, that he’s actually named Winslow Leach – personally, with a name like that, I’d rather be fake Marvin Hamlish – and he’s excited to even be noticed by the famous Swan. Arnold, acting as Swan’s surrogate, tells Winslow that he needs some polishing for the stage, so he proposes to bring Winslow’s work to Swan for his boss’ perusal. Why Swan would want it is beyond me, though, as – as Winslow explains – it’s a giant, integrated composition based on the legend of Faust. I never knew that Goethe could rock, personally. I’ve heard Hegel was a mean axe-man, though. Arnold, perhaps echoing my misgivings, elects to take a few pieces from Winslow, rather than the entire epic. Winslow, a consummate – and, hence, ill-tempered – artist, freaks out at Arnold’s impetuousness and pushes the greasy road manager into one of the fake walls in the bowels of the club. Luckily, Winslow had enough control to keep from hurling Arnold to his death THROUGH the wall.
One month later – or so the title card says – Winslow takes a little jaunt over to Swan’s record company to chat with Arnold but our hero learns, much to his chagrin, that he’s persona non grata in the building. Hilarity, of course, breaks out as he hastily exits while pursued by security guards and their raging dogs. Winslow, surprisingly without even knowing the address, takes a taxi to Swan’s mansion; once there, he breaks in and discovers that it’s filled with tone-deaf HOT CHICKS. Well, hot in the ‘70s sense at least. Your mileage may vary. While Winslow surveys the ear-torturing scene, he meets with a young singer named Phoenix (Jessica Harper) with a remarkably good voice – though that’s not saying much compared to the rest of the women there – and they sing her audition piece together in a touching and heartfelt moment. Seriously. It’s touching and heartfelt. Of course, this begs the question of just how Winslow knew the piece that he and the singer were singing: he wrote it. The other girls, perhaps jealous of Phoenix’s talents, mock Winslow; meanwhile, Phoenix, who must have a case of low self-esteem, merely is there to be a chorus girl and get in the show however she can. Winslow, on the other hand, just wants to get into Phoenix’s pants however he can. It’s not often that neophyte composers have the opportunity to get some.
Winslow, momentarily distracted by Phoenix’s gifted attributes, returns to his original purpose and requests an audience with Swan. Instead of the mysterious rock impresario, Winslow instead comes face-to-face with a guy who must be Eddie’s understudy from The Rocky Horror Show. Meanwhile, Phoenix, without Winslow there to protect her, goes into Swan’s “audition,” which actually appears to be an orgy. Well, it is the ‘70s, after all. Phoenix, wanting a part in the show . . . but not THAT badly, exits the room quickly after entering and into Winslow’s comforting arms. Swan, who may or may not have other plans – he’s too much of an enigma to know just what he wants – sends a pair of bikers after Winslow and Winslow, wisely, exits the scene expediently.
Some indeterminate time later, Swan personally auditions a horde of female singers in his own personal Sapphic orgy. Winslow, still desiring an intimate chat – perhaps now a little too intimate – with Swan, is one of them and in drag . . . even though he makes a less-than-convincing woman to begin with. Seriously, who is in charge of Swan’s front door? They must either be blind or a bad judge of gender. I guess this is one of those “suspension-of-disbelief moments.” Swan, like a good enigma would, emerges from a mirror in the room and he immediately has Winslow ejected from the proceedings. I can’t blame him; I don’t like sausage-fests either.
Somehow, through a convoluted series of events, Winslow ends up pummeled and resting comfortably in the bushes outside of Swan’s home; two helpful police officers find him there and, charitably, they set him up for heroin possession – at Swan’s behest – probably just so that he has someplace warm to stay for the night. That’s awfully kind of them. Unfortunately for Winslow, his one-night stint in the pokey becomes a lifetime gig as a melodramatic judge convicts and sentences him of his heinous crime. Once in prison, Swan, who must have some compunctions about his ill treatment of Winslow, at least sees to it that Winslow has decent dental care; the care is so decent that Winslow even gets some awesome steel teeth to replace his inferior enamel set.
Six months later – or so sayeth the title card – while the prisoners make Tiddly Winks, Winslow overhears a story of Swan’s latest musical success . . . and it’s one of Winslow’s pieces! Winslow, channeling the fury of a Napster-raging Lars Ulrich, goes mad, strangles a guard, and escapes the prison in a cardboard box. Now, far be it from me to criticize, but just how lax must your security be if one of your most notorious inmates is allowed to escape the facility in a cardboard box? Time to suspend disbelief again, I suppose. Rather than getting himself a change of clothes and new identity on his search for the one armed man, David . . . oh, wait. That’s The Fugitive. Winslow, meanwhile, keeps his clothes on and hightails it to Swan’s record company and begins to wreak havoc therein. As he attempts to sabotage Swan’s album-production division, tragedy befalls Winslow as his prison jumpsuit catches on one of the many dials and switches on the record-pressing machine and, through a convoluted series of events, his head becomes pressed in the contraption. Somehow, Winslow survives, only to be shot on his way out of the building; rather than return to prison a hideously scarred freak – which probably would garner him quite a bit of street cred – Winslow drowns himself in the East River.
After the papers report Winslow’s death – and the planned grand opening of Swan’s legendary club The Paradise – the camera – which appears to be suffering from a terrible case of asthma – breaks into Swan’s grandiose venue. The camera, still wheezing, stalks around backstage until it comes upon a wardrobe closet; from there the camera, devoid of anything resembling fashion taste, steals a gaudy costume and G-Force helmet from the wardrobe. Meanwhile, onstage, The Juicy Fruits rehearse a surf number while surrounded by a bevy of bikini-clad HOT CHICKS. While the camera surreptitiously plants a bomb on a prop car backstage, one of The Juicy Fruits tells Arnold that he’s not feeling to good. The singer, not Arnold. Arnold, like a good pharmacist, gives The Juicy Fruit some drugs . . . and then the bomb explodes! An allegory, perhaps? Naw . . . it can’t be, because no one dies tragically in the conflagration. Nevertheless, Swan – in his personal box – is concerned while the Phantom watches from a perch above the stage. Hmm . . . the Phantom watching the fruits of his subterfuge from above the stage. Where have I seen that before? That – like Rod Serling’s voice – seems awfully familiar.
Later that evening, Swan, who apparently has cameras and microphones in every nook and cranny of his little universe – which must be REALLY uncomfortable when he’s using the lavatory – watches a videotape of the explosive incident from earlier in the day. He spies the Phantom on the tape and then, serendipitously, the Phantom shows up out of nowhere to corner Swan . . . and they have a chat. Swan, perhaps more observant and intelligent than any character in the history of film, discerns that the mysterious Phantom is merely Winslow in a cheap disguise; therefore, he uses his masterful talents of manipulation to con the Phantom into working with him, rather than against him. I guess, even though you’re on a quest for REVENGE, you can still be gullible too . . . or, at least, the Phantom can be.
Sometime later, at an audition, the expected collection of tone-deaf HOT CHICKS sing onstage. I guess these are the days before tracking vocals; Ashlee Simpson would be proud. Swan and the Phantom, in Swan’s booth together, run the show; meanwhile, onstage, Phoenix – who must now be cool with orgies and amorality – argues with Arnold in the wings. Swan, curious as to the talents of this spunky young thing, bargains with Phoenix to show off her voice; they make an impromptu deal and, appropriately, a musical number breaks out. You know, if this weren’t a rock opera, I’d think they were killing time. The extras, meanwhile, may disagree with me, as they’re grooving to Phoenix’s rousing performance. After the number, Phoenix somehow spins herself offstage and then she returns with a sheepish look on her face. Maybe she witnessed Arnold doing something very wrong to a groupie backstage; I’m thinking that motor oil was involved. Phoenix then looks up longingly to Swan’s box and . . .
. . . we really don’t find out what happens because the proceedings are interrupted by the Phantom serenading the assembly through a voice-box. Swan, master tinkerer as well as diplomat, filters the Phantom’s voice with his plethora of high-tech (for the ‘70s) gadgetry and the Phantom ends up sounding pretty good in the end. Swan, therefore, rewards the Phantom with a voice and, in return, he wants the Phantom to rewrite Winslow’s cantata. Of course, all of these gentleman’s agreements mean nothing in a court of law, so Swan pulls out a giant, archaic contract for the Phantom to sign, which he does . . . in blood! Later, Swan, habitual voyeur, watches the contract signing on his video equipment and, while the Phantom’s voice is relatively normal – for a guy with steel teeth and a burnt-up face – Swan’s voice is sinister and almost demonic. Dum-dum-DUM!
The Phantom, now enlivened by Swan’s patronage, gets back to work and Swan digs the revisions that the Phantom has completed so far . . . but he wants to add more to it, against the Phantom’s wishes. You see, the Phantom, like his literary forebear, wishes only for Phoenix to sing his works; Swan, meanwhile, has other ideas, so he auditions a series of stereotypical musicians before settling on a glitzy glam rocker. While the Phantom continues his work diligently, Arnold berates some paparazzi at an airstrip where Swan then announces his latest rock n’ roll discovery: the (now) Goth glam rocker, Beef (Gerrit Graham) and his backup band . . . who are just The Juicy Fruits repackaged. Wow; that’s . . . anticlimactic.
The next morning, Swan kindly feeds the Phantom his breakfast, which comprises of a multitude of illicit narcotics. Well – as I said before – it is the ‘70s. Meanwhile, the Goth glam band rehearses but Beef, the fey lead singer, complains about the high pitch of the lyrics. Later in the rehearsal, he fills his position as the comic relief by slipping and sliding around onstage in a clumsy pair of platform shoes. Piangi would be proud. While Beef entertains the rest of his colleagues with his buffoonery, Swan sneaks up to the Phantom’s composition room where he deviously steals away the now-unconscious Phantom’s new magnum opus and then, after exiting the room, he orders his cronies to wall up the Phantom inside. Well, I didn’t know The Cask of Amontillado was involved among the influences here.
Just in case you were worried for the fate of our hero behind that loosely mortared brick wall, he awakens to find himself more-than-likely forever entombed in masonry . . . until he freaks out and busts through the still-wet wall. Meanwhile, in Beef’s dressing room, the queen of a lead singer – but not Freddy Mercury, lead singer of Queen – has a hissy fit with Arnold; Arnold, like any good manager, tells Beef to take a shower because showers always make you feel better. Whether you have a cold or a fit of random bitchiness, showers are always the cure. Beef, oddly enough, does just what Arnold tells him – maybe he knows about the awesome power of the shower – but maybe he should’ve locked the door as, while Beef steams under the hot water, the Phantom sneaks in with a knife, channeling Norman Bates. Instead of chopping up Beef into little bits until he goes down the drain – or makes a smashing meatloaf – the Phantom instead cuts through the shower curtain and shoves a toilet plunger onto Beef’s mouth. You know, Beef would be freaked out, but this kind of thing always happens at his local bathhouse. The Phantom then threatens Beef not to sing Faust because the music is intended for Phoenix and not for him. Dum-dum-DUM!
Beef, now a bit freaked out because he may miss his big break due to the machinations of the masked Phantom, wants to break free, but Arnold soothes his misgivings by bribing him with drugs. Either that, or Beef just took the drugs and forgot about his pain; either way, the show must go on. And speaking of the show, it begins . . . and the opening act appears to be KISS fronted by Keith Moon! Whoa . . . now we know where Paul, Gene, Ace, and Peter got the shtick from. Although, instead of a bass guitar shaped like an axe, this band wields guitars topped with knives which they use to chop up plants in the audience. OK . . . so there aren’t shrubs growing in the stands, but instead willing audience members that somehow transform into mannequins which are then dismembered by the band onstage for the appreciative crowd. And this is nearly twenty years before any rumor of Marilyn Manson doing the same, mind you.
After the ersatz KISS number – and to keep the possibly plagiaristic theme going – a spontaneous performance of The Rocky Horror Show breaks out. Here’s where everything gets a bit complicated, though; since the stage version of The Rocky Horror Show is a bit before my – and Phantom of the Paradise’s – time but I’ve seen (and own) The Rocky Horror Picture Show I can’t quite be sure whether Phantom of the Paradise steals from The Rocky Horror Show or The Rocky Horror Picture Show borrows heavily from Phantom of the Paradise. It’s all so very confusing . . . just like that last sentence. Anyway, just in case you were wondering, filling the role of Rocky in tonight’s production is . . . BEEF! I guess the drugs helped. The Phantom, meanwhile, plotting his REVENGE, takes to the rafters above the stage and – minutes into the performance – he kills Beef with a neon lightning bolt and the crowd goes wild for it! Thor would be proud.
As said before, the show must still go on, so – while the Phantom murders an innocent lighting technician – Phoenix takes the stage for a solo performance of the same song from earlier in the movie. Sadly, it’s not “The Music of the Night” or “All I Ask of You.” Even though it could be. And would be about twelve years later. The crowd, nonetheless, goes wild again, but they’re probably so hopped up on goofballs they couldn’t care less about what’s going on onstage. After the show ends – and someone scrapes Beef’s charred remains off the stage (hopefully they used a giant spatula) – Swan visits Phoenix in her dressing room where he promises riches, fame, fortune, and stardom . . . in return for a bit of Swan lovin’. Umm . . . ick. Of course, like any gentleman, Swan is willing to wait for Phoenix . . . to get to the back seat of his limo.
Phoenix, torn between her principles and her benefactor’s libido, leaves her dressing room with a throng of rabid fans waiting for her outside . . . and the Phantom! He whisks her away and up to the roof and I wonder just where I’ve seen this before. The Phantom, enamored by the young singer, reveals his identity to her: he’s her angel of music! The Phantom/Winslow warns Phoenix to fear Swan; you know, between the names “Phoenix” and “Swan” and the Phantom’s bizarre, beaked costume, there really is an awful lot of pointless bird imagery going on here. I suppose it’s just a reward for those of us who pay attention and, as you all probably have realized by now, I pay far too much attention. Phoenix, since she’s a supplicant to Swan already, spurns the Phantom’s warnings and then joins Swan in his car. Poor Phantom. It’s a hard life being a hideously scarred musical genius in love with a naïve singer and bent on REVENGE!
Over at Swan’s place, there’s a light on and Swan and Phoenix are getting it on. Meanwhile, from a skylight placed conveniently over the action, the Phantom watches the grotesque proceedings firsthand. The Phantom, like any jealous, hideously scarred spirit of vengeance, freaks out . . . while Phoenix’s solo plays mournfully in the background. Swan, creepy, diminutive voyeur that he is, then flips a switch so that he can watch the Phantom watching him and Phoenix getting it on while he watches the Phantom watching him . . . and so on. I guess that’s the only way he can get off, which is more than I ever needed to know or think about. The Phantom, distraught with grief, plunges a knife into his own chest and collapses on the skylight; later, Swan comes up for a visit and the Phantom mysteriously comes back to life. Whoa . . . Jesus Swan, superstar. Or not, as it seems that the Phantom’s death was all part of the contract and, therefore, Swan has to die for the Phantom to be absolved of his pact. Ah . . . well played, Swan; well played indeed.
Sometime later, at the big, network-television-broadcast finale of Faust, Phoenix partakes in a little fine cocaine while Swan casts Arnold as the priest in the production. I guess favoritism is alive and well at the Paradise. Meanwhile, in a shocking turn of events, some random middle-aged chick reveals that she dated Swan back in the ‘50s . . . making him old and uncool! Dum-dum-DUM! I guess he has a plastic surgeon . . . or something more sinister as the Phantom sneaks back into Swan’s inner sanctum and watches a videotape of a rather young – and vain – Swan attempting suicide in the bathtub years before. Geez . . . he films everything, doesn’t he? Although there’s more to it than that, as the Phantom watches in horror as a possibly delusional Swan has a chat with his reflection in the mirror and then his reflection gives him the same contract the Phantom received and Swan signs it with the promise of eternal youth. Of course, when making a deal with the devil there’s always a catch and there’s no exception here as one of the tenants of Swan’s contract is that he can only stay young as long as the recording remains intact. So it’s like a The Picture of Dorian Gray for the digital – or in this case, analog – age. What’s another antecedent between friends anyway? The Phantom, continuing further on the tape, realizes – much to his horror – that Phoenix also signed a contract and, for reasons slightly unexplained at this juncture, Swan plans on killing her onstage that very evening!
While the big show starts over at the Paradise, the Phantom torches Swan’s tape collection; it was probably the finest treasure trove of Norwegian scat porn in the Western hemisphere. It will be missed. Back at the Paradise, random chicks dance onstage and the crowd, as usual, goes wild. It’s probably the drugs. Speaking of drugs, a totally stoned Phoenix saunters onto the stage and takes her place; moments later, Swan comes up from below the stage wearing a sliver mask over his face. That’s just a little creepy and whole lot sinister. It seems that he and Phoenix are getting married right there; Tiny Tim would be proud. And then, just because Swan doesn’t want to have to deal with a nagging wife, there’s a sniper – who looks like the love child of Carlos Santana and Tim Curry – waiting in the wings to shoot Phoenix dead after the ceremony. The Phantom, showing up out of the blue, has other plans, as he causes the sniper to shoot Arnold in the head while thwarting the marksman. The Phantom then heroically swings down to the stage where he attacks and unmasks Swan, who’s now all gnarly due to the fate of his tape collection. While Swan postures like any good villain on the edge of defeat usually does, the Phantom grabs a pointy hat from one of the dancers onstage and stabs Swan with it . . . and then they both bleed, since the contract is being broken. As Swan dies, the Phantom is unmasked and dies himself; Phoenix rushes to his side and cries and the movie ends, leaving Phoenix to a life of rehab and serious psychological counseling. She shouldn’t have started using coke; then all of this would’ve been avoided.
When all is said and done, Phantom of the Paradise is a definitive Misunderstood Masterpiece. While not a good film per se, you can see flashes of brilliance in DePalma’s direction as well as the overall design of the movie. Luckily, the film doesn’t take itself too seriously, enjoying a level of camp that keeps the gravitas from bogging down the entertainment value . . . and there is quite a bit of entertainment value. Also, unlike many films, Phantom of the Paradise wears its sources on its proverbial sleeve; the allusions to Le Fantôme de L’Opéra, Faust, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and perhaps even The Rocky Horror Show are obvious and maintained with an air of reverence. While the references to the multitude of source materials serve as a homage here, we see a different take somewhere else: Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera. While DePalma treats his influences with respect, Webber – perhaps influenced himself by Phantom of the Paradise – borrows liberally (perhaps overly so) from the style and imagery of this film for his own musical . . . and nearly to an embarrassing level. Although this may just be a bit of conjecture on my part, the parallels are a bit too obvious to miss . . . but Phantom of the Paradise is certainly a “can’t miss.”
Join me next week as we begin a three-film study on the early years of one of the best actors working today. First, we’ll see what happens when an average man gets caught up in a spy spoof; I know you won’t want to miss it. See you then!
