I didn’t know what in the hell they were singing about half the time, but that could be due in part to the sheer explosion of color the film uses to distract us from the shop-worn plot. As such, The Phantom of the Opera - arguably the world’s most popular theatrical undertaking (outside of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s other deeply offensive and unwatchable effort, Cats) - is nothing more than the triumph of the lowbrow an appeal to the heart that will disappear into the mist the instant it is intellectualized.įor my money, and I haven’t sucked enough cocks to be an expert in musical theater, but there isn’t a memorable number to be found at least if the standard is that you will be humming it in the car after the show. Of course, musicals are not obligated to exist on any plane other than the fantastical, but there should be an effort - through song - to speak to deeper impulses than melodramatic longings. Because the only movie musicals I have ever enjoyed are of that variety - Cabaret, All That Jazz, and Chicago - it stands to reason that unless I am treated to cynicism, bite, and darker shades amidst the bellowing from balconies and frenzied gams, I will assume I am being insulted and asked to play along with the shameless un-reality of it all. And as I filed in to take my place among the openly gay men, closeted gay men, and heterosexual men forced to attend by their wives (ahem), I expected no less, for I am rarely on speaking terms with the musical, unless of course Bob Fosse is in some way connected.
Watching Joel Schumacher’s The Phantom of the Opera is like attending a royal wedding - everything is in its place, the surroundings are lush and inviting, and every corner is teeming with brilliantly crafted, lovingly staged trinkets and goodies, but to what end? As the wedding accomplishes little more than the coupling of two overly pampered members of the idle rich, the movie brings us nothing but empty spectacle eye-candy without a shred of consequence.
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