

This angel, however, is a bit more devilish than expected, and when Christine attempts to take a paramour, things get a bit weird. An angel of music will teach her, will bring her fame and fortune.

Christine Daaé is devoted to her art, and when a mysterious voice begins teaching her to sing, she remembers her father’s parting words. Meanwhile, a new opera singer is rising in the ranks. The opera managers think it’s all a funny prank at the expense of their newness, but the phantom is willing to prove just how volatile he is. Fail on these two conditions: death, disaster, dismay, and other fiendish tricks ensue. Do this, and he will conveniently leave everyone to go their merry way. This specter requires both a private opera box and a direct deposit. We begin at the Paris Opera House with two new managers who, on their first day, learn that their theater hosts a ghost. Leroux’s work covers a vast array of hyper characters, all of whom are overacted and yet underwhelming. Andrew Lloyd Webber may have made the music of the night resound with passion and poignancy, a dark sensuality covering years of insanity inducing loneliness, but the actual written story is woven from a far cheaper fabric. This was unfortunately my exact experience with Phantom of the Opera. Have you ever had a book that has just sat on your shelf forever? A book that you lovingly run your hands over as you walk by, anticipating the future greatness – the sheer perfection of finally sitting down to read it? Have you ever, actually, bought progressively better versions of this book because you just knew you are going to love it? And then finally, finally, that perfect day comes when the sun is shining, the birds tweeting, the coffee perking, and you sit down with that near-legendary book, years of longing coalescing into the perfect moment, only to discover that the story is, in fact, an utter letdown.
