The Phantom of the past 30 years isn't the one that Gaston Leroux intended when he first wrote the novel in 1911. Nowadays The Phantom is sexy, wearing a fractured opera mask to hide an acid burn. The rest of him has a swagger, embodying the physique of an attractive man with one unfortunate disability. On one hand, it works because of how tiresome applying make-up that makes him look like a demonic skull would be for every night in a big stage musical. Still, it's interesting to see how the horror has given way to camp, choosing to focus on the empathetic side of a character once revulsed because of his ugly appearance. To visit the novel a century later is to see how pop culture has (faithfully) taken the lavishness and hidden the ugliness - an irony given how the book explores and sympathizes with a man everyone sees as an ugly monster.
"The Phantom of the Opera," as a novel has a great premise in large part because it has a basis in reality. The mythology stems from a real theater (Palais Garnier in France) and a real event (a chandelier crash), creating something akin to contemporary mythology. Much like how people make up stories for why certain houses are haunted, Leroux sought to make a story about why the chandelier fell, exploring the looming presence of the "Opera Ghost" (O.G.) and how he may or may not exist. With a love story involving talented ingenue Christine Daae, the story attempts to mix historical documentation with pulp and find a way to horrify as well as sympathize with The Phantom. The results are fascinating if just because of how they differ from later adaptations. On its own, it's the myth that has the power to change public perception of Palais Garnier. It's a work of art, even if it's a bit of a silly text.
Who is The Phantom? There is a series of narrators who are all fighting to provide a coherent answer to the question. There are the "documents" that Leroux pulls from, detailing tragedies from Palais Garnier's history that would suggest a curse. There's also Leroux himself, providing omnition as he looks at everyone's story. While Christine is a central figure, she rarely feels like she's given an agency as narrator to express how she feels inside. It's mostly an external flame, brightly burning for someone who sees the beauty in her talent. Along with a town of people who hate O.G. and find Box 5 of the theater cursed because that's where he sits, the world of the theater has an aura about it before Leroux thinks to actually introduce the character in his physical form. Yes, he may be a ghost but he's also a real person who lives underneath the opera. As the epilogue will suggest, Palais Garnier actually did have an aquatic underbelly, only adding authenticity to this strange world for "the trap door lover."
Like Christine, The Phantom isn't given much of a chance to be given an internal life. He is however given a variety of names that reflect the differing perspectives by which characters perceive him. There are negative ones: Opera Ghost, The Phantom of the Opera, and even monster. There are positive ones, such as Angel of Music. Then there are those that humanize him, which includes his name: Erik. This is a tool that Leroux uses to try and find humanity to this enigmatic figure who feels like he exists outside of space, appearing randomly and going as he pleases. He is the quintessential ghost story of the 20th century despite being alive because nobody really knows how to deal with him. He embodies a personal dread that everybody has in their lives, save for Christine who sees the beauty inside. Her boyfriend, Raoul, only adds a soap opera-like melodrama to the core as he tries to get to the heart of the matter and be Christine's hero.
While later adaptations would sympathize with Erik in earlier chapters, Leroux's version still comes from a time where monsters were more black-and-white. For the general public, the Opera Ghost is a scapegoat who is the cause of all problems. He dropped the chandelier, murdered anyone who stood in his way and was threatening to steal Christine from the world. While the story unravels in a way that works as its own mystery, it doesn't give up the perspective of the outsiders looking in. Erik is deformed, looking more like a pile of bones than a human being. He could do nothing wrong and still feel like a threat to the world. It's a complex idea, and on that becomes more interesting once Raoul and The Persian - a man from Erik's past - begin to discover why he lives in isolation. It isn't until the very last chapter that Erik is given a reason for hiding from the world, and it's tragic. It raises the question of who the real phantoms in the opera were. Was it the man forced to be invisible by a cruel world, or was it the invisible humanity that never gave him a chance?
The world that Leroux creates is a nice addition to the literary horror canon. By choosing to take place at the Palais Garnier, he helps to create an authentic story for any tourist that is likely to visit. They'll now want to see the cellars to see if they're real. They'll want to see the ceiling where the chandelier fell. It's as much about how he enhances the geography of the building as the mythology he places inside of that. Suddenly it feels like there's a permanence that comes with the story that will scare the mortal man. The complexity of The Phantom is just as heartbreaking, managing to be horrifying and tragic all at the same time. Considering that it's a world of theater, even the choice to have the central conflict be centered around Christine needing to perform live manages to be less embarrassing than it should be. It's a place where art thrives no matter how people look, and it works wonderfully in this eerie way.
"The Phantom of the Opera" has the power to feel richer because Leroux is more fascinated by the humanity in the monster. He wants to understand what draws people to hate Erik as well as love him. It's a tragic love story as well as an update on the classic ghost story. In fact, it manages to be the quintessential take full of memorable characters who come and go as they're needed, adding flavor to every moment in the story. In the end, however, Leroux's choice to hold distance from Erik at least provides effort from the audience to try and understand something that isn't clear. Nobody can truly understand Erik's pain, and there's fears in his heart of the people who drove him to isolation. It's a perplexing nature that has remained in all adaptations since, even if why he's an outsider become less clear with every inch of the mask that disappears.
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