“The Phantom of the Opera – is there, inside your mind.” These lyrics from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical-theatre adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera echo the opening sentence of Gaston Leroux’s original 1910 novel: “The Phantom of the Opera did exist” (p. 5). And both sentences ring true – for in one form or another, as a novel or a film or a musical play, this Gothic-opera story of a mad, disfigured genius who lives in a network of caves and underground passages beneath the Paris Opera House has been very much with us ever since Leroux’s novel first saw print. The Phantom of the Opera does exist; he is here, inside our minds, and he shows no inclination to leave our thoughts anytime soon.
Born in 1868, Gaston Leroux studied law but found that journalism better suited his talents. He was a hard-working and successful reporter, and his experience as a journalist gave him a thoroughgoing knowledge of the cityscape, society, and folklore of Paris. As Jann Matlock of University College London explains in a foreword, part of that folklore included stories of how, when the Palais Garnier was being built between 1863 and 1875, it was discovered that an underground lake – a natural collection point for water from a tributary of the Seine – existed beneath the site where the opera building would take shape. Opera houses around the world already possessed a rich folklore of hauntings and weird happenings; and from that story of an underground lake, Leroux began to weave his tale of a mysterious, ghost-like figure who made the sunless grounds around that underground lake his home.
As Leroux’s novel begins, two new directors of the Paris Opera are learning, to their consternation, that the Opera House is haunted by an “opera ghost” who insists that Box Five be reserved for him at all times, and who has an odd physicality for a ghost; he sometimes asks for a footstool, and he always tips two francs and sometimes leaves a fan behind. And he shows a decided interest in the musical career of one Christine Daaé, a talented singer who is also the daughter of a noted Scandinavian violinist.
Christine’s display of talent is threatening to the opera’s reigning diva, Carlotta, who seeks to make sure that upstart Christine will not steal her hard-won operatic thunder. But Christine, who is being trained in secret by a mysterious “Angel of Music,” also seems to have the protection of the “opera ghost,” who sends a threatening letter to Carlotta, warning her not to sing that night, and adding that “should you sing tonight, a great misfortune may befall you during your performance…a misfortune worse than death” (p. 81).
The letter, “written in red ink, in a clumsy, disjointed hand” (p. 81), is no idle threat. Carlotta is mortified on stage when her hitherto beautiful singing voice becomes a toad-like croak. The mocking, “impossible disembodied voice” of the Phantom calls out, “Her singing tonight is enough to bring down the chandelier” (p. 92). What then follows is one of the most famous scenes in the history of literary Gothicism:
[The audience] looked up as one to the ceiling and let out a terrible cry. The chandelier, the enormous mass of the chandelier, was moving, slipping downwards in response to that fiendish voice. Unhooked, it plummeted down from the very top of the house, crashing into the middle of the stalls, amidst a thousand screams. Terror struck, followed by a general stampede. (p. 92)
Raoul, the Count de Chagny, was Christine’s childhood sweetheart; and his status as a patron of the arts brings him and Christine together once again. But Christine is also loved by the “opera ghost”, the Phantom; and when Christine and Raoul attend a masked ball together at the opera house, the masked ball is invaded by the Phantom, in a nice nod by author Leroux to Gothic forerunner Edgar Allan Poe:
This figure was dressed entirely in scarlet. A huge hat adorned with a plume of feathers crowned his skull-like head – and ah, what a splendid imitation of a skull it was! The art students applauded and congratulated him, enquiring which master craftsman, which workshop patronized by Pluto, had designed, made, and painted so perfect a head! The Grim Reaper himself must have posed for it. A huge velvet cloak dragged on the floor like a trail of fire as the man in scarlet with the plumed hat and the skeletal head stalked. His cloak bore, embroidered in gold, the words: “Stand aside! I am the Red Death.” (p. 105)
It is a love triangle with a difference, with two compelling men vying for the affection of the beautiful and talented Christine. On the one hand, there is the thoroughly Apollonian Raoul – a fine match, a good catch. He’ll be a good provider, a reliable and honourable husband, a doting father. He’ll never miss any of his children’s soccer matches or dance recitals. He won’t run around with other women, or gamble away the house payment, or get drunk and say tacky things at neighbourhood parties. He’s everything a girl is supposed to want.
But then there’s the Phantom – dark, Dionysiac, transgressive, with the lure of the forbidden around him. He lives underground, does what he bloody well wants, and doesn’t care a fig what anyone thinks about it. He's creative and talented. The Phantom is a badass; and the thoroughly respectable Raoul sees that he’s at a bit of a disadvantage, bitterly asking Christine, “Why waste your time here with me? You clearly love him! Your fears, your terror, all of that is still born of love, and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind that one does not admit even to oneself….The kind that gives you a thrill when you think of it. No wonder: a mysterious man living in an underground palace!” (p. 140)
But what Raoul does not yet know, at that point, is the story of how Christine learned the Phantom’s dark secret while she was being held by him. The Phantom, whose real name is Erik, always wears a mask; and while she and Erik are singing together, Christine finds herself feeling compelled to remove the mask and see the face beneath.
When Christine unmasks the Phantom, there’s a dreamlike quality to it, the terrifying logic of a nightmare. The two are singing the duet from Otello – appropriately, a story of love and murder – and Christine recollects how “I wanted to gaze upon the hidden face that must have been transfigured by eternal art, so as to take this sublime image with me to my grave. I wanted to see the face of the Voice and instinctively, for I was no longer mistress of myself, my fingers tore away the mask. Oh! Horror! Horror! Horror!” (p. 145)
It is the passage that the reader has been waiting for, as Christine tries to describe to Raoul what the man looked like behind the mask:
“You must have seen skulls, dried and withered by the centuries….You also saw the Red Death among the revellers at the masked ball….But imagine, if you can, the mask of the Red Death suddenly coming to life in order to express – through the holes that were his eyes, his nose, and his mouth – the unfettered anger and sovereign fury of a demon; and yet not the slightest gleam from those eye sockets, for, as I was to learn later, his burning eyes only shone in the darkest night.” (p. 146)
Like the vampire, or the zombie, or Frankenstein’s monster, the Phantom occupies a sort of liminal space, a middle ground, between life and death.
Enraged at being thus exposed as “hideousness incarnate”, the Phantom, with “grinding teeth and no lips”, draws close to Christine, and curses what he sees as her womanly curiosity: “You wanted to see! Then look! Feast your eyes, sate your soul, on my accursed ugliness!” (p. 146) The story of how Christine engineers her escape from a Phantom who has sworn that, now that she has seen his ugly face, she can never leave him, is one of the most fascinating aspects of The Phantom of the Opera. As Christine puts it to Raoul, “My lies were as hideous as the monster that had inspired them; but they were the price I had to pay to regain my freedom” (p. 150).
Yet Christine’s freedom is short-lived, as the Phantom kidnaps her in the middle of a performance and takes her down into his underground lair. The actual architecture of the Paris Opera House, with differing levels of basements and sub-basements incorporated into its design in order to accommodate the elaborate sets of the time, lends itself to this aspect of Leroux’s novel. At the same time, the opera’s underground becomes a sort of map of the subconscious and unconscious reaches of Erik’s twisted mind.
Raoul’s initial feelings of despair at Christine’s disappearance are relieved somewhat when a mysterious Persian, who knows Erik from years past, offers to help Raoul find Christine. Warning Raoul that “You need to be ready for anything. I must warn you that we shall face the most formidable adversary imaginable” (p. 200), the Persian leads Raoul down into the grim world beneath the opera house.
What follows is a descent through a variety of traps, devised by the Phantom to protect his lair from unwanted intruders. The traps impose different kinds of physical and psychological torture in a way that evokes Dante’s Inferno. The Persian, who takes over the narration at this point in the novel, sees how Raoul is being affected by the Phantom’s traps, and wonders whether Raoul will be strong enough to endure the ordeal: “He shouted Christine’s name, brandished his pistol, called out to the Phantom, challenged the Angel of Music to fight to the death, and swore profanities….In short, the torture was beginning to affect his unprepared mind” (p. 250). And amidst these hellish torments devised by a devilish but very human genius, The Phantom of the Opera moves inexorably toward its conclusion.
While thinking about the array of actors who have played the Phantom on film – Lon Chaney, Claude Rains, Herbert Lom, Maximilian Schell, Robert Englund, Charles Dance, Julian Sands, Gerard Butler – I found myself reflecting on how often film directors have felt the need to invent a backstory for the Phantom. Those backstories, some of which are quite fantastical (in one, the Phantom is raised by rats!), perhaps reflect the fact that Erik’s backstory, as set forth in Leroux’s novel, is fantastical in its own right – downright operatic – though it does provide an explanation for how Erik could design all that interesting and weird stuff in his underground home.
Today, as commentator Matlock wryly notes, the docents at the real-life Paris Opera House “don’t tell you about the Phantom unless someone asks. And even then, the guides…work very hard to keep that aspect of the building’s lore to a minimum” (p. xiii); the gift shop doesn’t even stock Leroux’s book! And meanwhile, the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, which debuted in 1986, is still running, both in the West End and on Broadway, with total worldwide receipts of more than $6 billion – a monster in its own right. (I saw it once, in New York – had good seats, right under the chandelier. It gives one pause.) The ongoing popularity of The Phantom of the Opera, in such a variety of media, speaks to how skillfully Leroux crafted and wove a story calculated to fascinate the reader. Truly, the Phantom of the Opera is still there – inside our minds.