Leroux's "Phantom of the Opera" novel: random thoughts

Somehow I had managed to hold out for half a year without reading the book which some Phantom 'phans' pompously call The Source -- as if it was not a mediocre early 20th century humour/horror thriller but, at the very least, the original tablets of the Ten Commandments as given to Moses on Mount Sinai.



It's nothing of the sort.



It's Pratchett.



Well, maybe not Pratchett -- but there's an awful lot of humour, with the exception of the last few chapters (which also happens in Pratchett's books, eg The Truth), and there's really not much horror at all. I had expected something totally creepy, and instead spent much of my reading time laughing.



Having read this, I have no idea why anyone should complain that the movie Erik/Phantom wasn't as dark as he is in the book. If anything, he is much darker. The book Erik may be a murderer but he doesn't enjoy it and most of the time he kind of tries to be normal, at whatever cost.



The movie Erik is not only crazier, he's scarier. Unlike his book counterpart, movie Erik has absolutely no problem murdering someone in cold blood just to make a point (in the book it tends to be for a specific reason, eg Buquet found the entrance to the Phantom's house), and his dissociation from humanity is, in some ways, even worse than in the book. Plus, in the movie he was messing with Christine's head since she was a child, rather than for only three months -- and it's movie Erik, not book Erik, who takes advantage of Christine by singing to her at her father's grave. In the book, she knows that he will be there because he tells her so. There are countless other examples, but suffice it to say that this Erik is practically cuddly in comparison with the movie version. So I have no idea why fans complained.



I must say that the book Christine, despite being quite strong, didn't appeal to me as much as much as movie Christine. She is manipulative and a bit too cold -- although I loved that her reason for ripping off Erik's mask is because she's pissed off at him, and that after he flips out at her about the mask, she has the guts to march right into his bedroom (!!) and tell him, essentially, to get a grip, and that he's not that bad. She says she lied, later, but still -- that's pretty gutsy. And she even burns the mask. I'm not sure where the idea of Christine as a wilting fragile little flower comes from, because in the book she's practically an Amazon at times.



Raoul, in the book, struck me as sort of the 'normal guy's perspective. I can't say that I liked him, but I didn't dislike him -- he was just ... there. I didn't get the sense that Christine cared for him particularly deeply, and I also didn't get the sense that he loved Christine in a way that would be more than a youthful infatuation. He is very young, true, and in some scenes he definitely behaves like a child, but Christine seems years more mature than he is, and it's hard to imagine them being suitable for each other, let alone happy.



On the whole, I think Andrew Lloyd Webber did a great job with conveying the substance of the story in his musical. Again, I don't see why Leroux purists complain -- seems just right to me. There's humour, there's a bit of creepiness, there's murder, and there's love. Perhaps his Erik is stronger and Christine is weaker, but that's a question of interpretation.



As for the movie, I think it's brilliant. It is not the book and thank goodness for that, but it has its own merits. In a sense, I'm glad that I've read the book and now I don't have to wonder if there is some great secret I'm missing. I can say with total honesty that while the book amused me and (towards the end) was quite touching, the movie's characters are still far more to my liking.



Tango

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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 17

Chapter 17 - Snakeskin.

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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 16

Chapter 16 - En face



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A Solo For The Living - Chapter 15

Finally!



Chapter 15 - Giselle



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Horcrux theory -- SPOILERS!

Just wanted to write this down while I remember it, so that I can come back in 2 years' time and laugh at my own ridiculous ideas.



Warning: spoilers!

Continue Reading

Why I think Snape may have been the one who stole the real Horcrux from the cave:



-- the main safeguard on the locket is a potion - a potion someone had to brew and put in place. One person could not have gotten the Horcrux (according to Dumbledore) if that person had to drink the potion -- but what about taking it out before the potion went in?



-- the note suggests that the person who took the Horcrux wants to make a point of betraying Voldemort. The whole purpose of the note is to say, basically, "I am NOT on your side, and here is proof!"



-- it is possible (though unlikely, I admit) that a horcrux was the 'ironclad proof' Snape furnished for Dumbledore. It would be neat if a Horcrux was also the ironclad proof (of treachery) to Voldemort. I admit this is a stretch, but...



-- I don't think RAB are initials of any wizard or witch, or Hermione would have identified them. It is also unlikely to be two people working in tandem because, again, the note suggests that the removal of the horcrux is a very personal action against Voldemort by one person ("It was I", not "we".



-- it would just be elegant. Not only for narrative reasons, but it also brings things back to Book 1 and the safeguards on the Philosopher's Stone (the potions).





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HP-6: Quick Review (SPOILERS FOR ALL CHAPTERS!)

Finally! In between my determined efforts at re-learning to move my neck(crrrrunch crrrrrunch) and my even more determined efforts to do some much-needed RL work, I finally managed to read "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince".



Spoilers will be here.



Probably a lot of them.



So if you don't want to be spoiled, don't read the rest of the post.

continue to review >>

General impressions:

I really liked it. Rowling seems to have regained her sense of humour, and this book is not nearly as dark as book 5 or, indeed, 4. A lot of the time I caught myself laughing out loud, and I noticed others doing this as well -- I can't imagine this happening in either book 4 or 5! The pace is also much tighter: a good 20% of book 5 seemed like a lot of waffle (although enjoyable waffle) and even the first part of book 4, the Quiddich Cup, was on the verbose side. This book, on the other hand, is impeccably paced -- every bit as well as book 3 (still my favourite), and the story doesn't descend into too many unnecessary details or gratuitous sadism. Unfortunately, this does have one drawback: while on the whole I was relieved that there was less dark stuff, I was also a bit disappointed that the story never plumbs the emotional depth of some of the most gut-wrenching scenes from book 5 -- like the "St Mungo's Hospital" scene with Neville's parents, which moved me to tears.



Kiddie Pairings:

Ron/Hermione -- no surprises there, Harry/Ginny -- also nothing surprising. I liked the desсriрtions of Harry fighting the 'monster' inside him who wants to kiss Ginny: it's very nicely done, and provides a deceptively fluffy hint at the theme of obsessive love.



Obsessive Love:

Clearly this is THE theme du jour. While not terribly original, it's always fun to read and let's face it, it beats gratuitous sadism a la Umbridge. Tonks/Lupin and Fleur/Bill demonstrate all the nicer facets of unconditional love, but then we also have the tragic (sob sob ) story of Voldemort's mother and her obsession with Tom Riddle Senior. While I liked the duality, I really wish that there had been a bit more showing and a bit less telling... I really can't say I felt anything much for Merope, but it's a story where you should feel something, isn't it? I suppose there was a limit to how long the book could be, but I would have liked that particular story to have had more heart and less "information dump" about it.



Other aspects of the same theme -- quick list because I'm too tired to be analytical: the love potions, Narcissa's love for her son, Dumbledore's mercy, and of course, Harry's ability to love as contrasted with Voldemort's lack thereof. All nicely setting up the final confrontation. Ta-da-da-dummm.



Dumbledore:

Had to clear the set for Harry, obviously -- but still sad. Sadder than Sirius' death, for me, because I never cared much for Sirius (especially in book 5). Even knowing this was coming, I still hated that poor Dumbledore had to go. The fact that he imparts all his information to Harry suggests that he knew it was coming, but whether that was an obvious precaution against the inevitable or an actual Plan remains a mystery.



Snape:

I liked the ambiguity, but at the same time, I would be very surprised if Snape turns out to be on Voldemort's side. The main reason is the emphasis on his having a 'good' reason for every seemingly 'bad' thing he does -- even when he talks about the Dark Arts in a "caressing" voice, Hermione points out that he sounds like Harry, because Harry, too, gets something of a kick from the mental challenge. This happens every single time Snape does something suspicous -- of course, this is to emphasise his being a 'double agent', but if he was truly as bad as all that, JKR wouldn't have bothered, IMO. Evidently the purpose of this is make sure that Harry hates him again, because it's more interesting/dramatic that way.



Idle speculation: there is absolutely no way in hell that Dumbledore would have believed in Snape's genuine remorse unless Snape had brought him what Harry and co. call "ironclad proof" of his good faith. After his role in reporting the prophecy, I don't believe Dumbledore would have taken something trivial: it had to have been important, and probably an object of some sort rather than information. (I'm almost tempted to guess 'horcrux', but I don't think that theory holds water).



More idle speculation: Snape's comment about Pettigrew listening at doors ("I can't think what he means by it" suggests to me that Voldemort doesn't trust him completely and is using Pettigrew to spy on him. Snape is aware of this, obviously.



A question that occurred to me -- why does Snape leave his Potions book, complete with notes, lying around in the classroom? Perhaps he has forgotten about it in the intervening years, but surely he would have kept something like this private if possible. Particularly as it has his own nickname written on it. On the other hand, he couldn't have known who would pick it up, so it seems unlikely that he planted it deliberately. Either way, rather odd.



And one more random idea:

- The note in the fake horcrux had to have come from someone who knew how to get past the obstacles, especially the potion. The obvious theory, the note's signature notwithstanding, is that the person who stole the Horcrux was Snape (because who else could have gotten past the potion?) I toyed with the idea that perhaps this was the thing Snape gave Dumbledore to prove his good faith, but then Dumbledore would not have gone searching for it -- unless he either didn't know where it came from, or had some other reason for taking Harry to look for it. For instance (getting into wild-guess territory here) he may have wanted Harry to see that note. Or, he may have thought that one of the other Horcruxes was in there.



That's probably enough rambling for now. More coherent thoughts may follow, eventually, after I've had a chance to think about it some more.





Tango

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GRRR!!! (rant alert)

WHY do people insist on dropping spoilers for HP6? As though saying "spoiler warning" with no spoiler space of any sort is enough. ARGH. ARGH. ARRRRRRGGGGH.



I just read a massive spoiler, totally by accident, on a non-HP message board, in an unrelated thread. Now I want to inflict endless torment on the silly person who posted it. I didn't want to know!



Only got the book two hours ago, and three other people are waiting to read it after me. Better get to it. Pity I can't enjoy the suspense now, because some moron felt the need to ruin it!



Hence, a plea to all HP readers: please hide all spoilers, guys, even if it's not on an HP site! Please. Because people like me, who didn't have a chance to read the book the moment it came off the press, get very upset when their reading enjoyment is ruined by someone's thoughtlessness.



Tango

@настроение: upset

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Another use of the word "bugger"

While looking over the old entries in this diary, I realised that in my entry under "uses of the word 'bugger'" I left out another very common one:



Bugger-all - "absolutely nothing", but more emphatic. For instance: "I know bugger-all about organic chemistry" (suggests a sense of guilt [I really should know something] or maybe dismissal [don't bother me, I know nothing]), "He did bugger-all today" (suggests disapproval).

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Ow

There is nothing quite like injuring your back to make you realise just how terrible it must be to be old and in constant pain.



One awkward twist of the neck is apparently sufficient to tear a muscle that runs all the way from the base of the skull to the shoulder blade. This, in turn, is sufficient to make me discover that although I can't sing, when it comes to screaming I have a staggering vocal range: all the way from contralto moaning to what can only be described as an ultrasonic soprano whimper. No doubt my neighbours appreciated this glittering vocal extravaganza at 5:30am.



Tango

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Deliciously vicious folklore -- the lullaby from hell!

While looking up the origins of some English words, I stumbled on this entry under "bogeyman" (ie, something scary that lives under your bed and will come and get you if you don't behave).



I love the lullaby. It's so hilariously nasty! Of course, most folklore is. People just prefer to white-wash it these days. But there's certainly no white-washing this one! *evil laugh*





Bogeyman

During the height of the Napoleon scare, 1803-1805, when the Camp de Boulogne was in full swing and Napoleon really seemed to be about to invade the British Isles, propaganda in Britain painted Napoleon as the devil incarnate. They called him Boney, which itself became corrupted to Bogey and Bogeyman, as the following nursery rhyme shows.



'Baby, baby, naughty baby,

Hush! you squalling thing, I say;

Peace this instant! Peace! or maybe

Bonaparte will pass this way.

Baby, baby, he's a giant,

Black and tall as Rouen's steeple,

Sups and dines and lives reliant

Every day on naughty people.

Baby, baby, if he hears you

As he gallops past the house,

Limb from limb at once he'll tear you

Just as pussy tears a mouse.

And he'll beat you, beat you, beat you,

And he'll beat you all to pap:

And he'll eat you, eat you, eat you,

Gobble you, gobble you, snap! snap! snap!'



Source: Eliza Gutch and Mabel Peacock, County Folk-Lore, vol. 5: Examples of Printed Folk-Lore Concerning Lincolnshire (London: Folk-Lore Society, 1908), pp. 383-384.



Although it is an English lullaby, sometimes the name "Menshikoff" is used in place of Bonaparte. In another version of the poem, the ogre is named Wellington. Variants include "And he breakfasts, dines, rely on't" and "every morsel snap, snap, snap." A Japanese website contends that this lullaby had been around since the early 1600s, using the names of Cromwell and Charles I as "ogres". Be that as it may, ever since Napoleon, parents wishing to encourage recalcitrant children have threatened with the words 'The Bogeyman'll come and get you'.



Details courtesy of Elaine Hutchison, independent scholar

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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 14

Chapter 14 - When the War Is Over



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Very short, very strange, but hopefully good

A short, strange story, written for the Phantom "Dark Fic" contest and in part inspired by my favourite Yunna Moritz poem of all time.

EARTHBOUND

They said Raoul de Chagny had sold his soul to the devil for a wife like Christine, and did well out of the bargain. But then, gossip cannot always be right.



First they said Christine de Chagny was foreign, and that was true, but not in the way they meant it.



Then they said Christine de Chagny was beautiful, and that was true, but not in the way they meant it.



Later, they would say Christine de Chagny was happy.



Her days began a minute after sunrise. She would kiss her husband, slip on her dressing-gown and see to her toilet, have a word about dinner plans with the cook, then run lightly back upstairs to the nursery, indifferent to the pain in her back, in time to see the children wake up. There was nothing more beautiful to her or more precious than those first fleeting moments: their fuzzy heads lifting heavy from the pillows, the little fists rubbing sleep-misted eyes, that first joyous cry of ‘Mama!’ that greeted her from the two of them. Twins, a boy and a girl. She had never known wonder like the moment when she first held them and knew that they had come from her, that she had protected them with her own flesh and bones. It was the first time she had felt proud of what her body could do. It was the first time she had understood herself.



Mornings passed in supervising the children’s lessons and seeing to the house; afternoons were when her husband returned and they shared a pleasant meal together, or sometimes a stroll through the park before dinner. They loved autumn best of all, its sweet loveliness of rustling gold laid out for their steps, the black lattice of branches overhead fringed with the last of the sunlight, and the leaves waltzing down towards them. The gentle clarity of October air turning finally into the sharper chill of November as the trees shed their drying tears. It was a beauty rarely appreciated by young lovers, but they had been children once, and together had learned to see the truth of things.



The days were short in autumn, and so dinner was a brief affair, and hurried. They sat at the table in the dining-room, the four of them, the children in their best velvet and lace, wide-eyed and hushed. They talked in subdued voices, Christine and her husband, of things they wanted the children to remember, later. Under the table, her right foot was toe-to-toe with his left. Delicious smells of roast goose and potatoes clouded the silverware with steam, hiding its mirror polish. After dinner, the children went upstairs, and she tucked them into their cots. In the white-painted frame of their little nursery window, the sun would be setting: a red beacon wavering on the jagged edge of the forest, tainting the clouds rose and violet, muted by the bluish veil of the coming winter. She liked the light in her eyes, she never flinched away.



She would draw the curtains tightly, bringing night to the nursery early so that she could see the way her children looked in the darkness. Dark eyes and trembling lashes, her son’s face lost in shadow. Grey eyes and waves of hair like autumn, her daughter’s. Both watching her with the careful intensity of the very young.



Some evenings when there was time, they sang, simple songs in the language of Christine’s childhood that she could not understand any more than they – but which she recalled sung in her mother’s unseen voice, and had heard again in the lament of her father’s violin. Her children’s voices were sweeter than her mother’s, livelier than her father’s violin, kinder than that that other, most beautiful, voice she had known. When they sang, they closed their eyes. These were things Christine knew she must remember always, store away against the day when they would no longer be hers. Etched on her soul, they would be proof against the temptation of age, when in a moment of grief, she might utter with helpless bitterness those final words that are the admission of defeat – “If only!...”



In her own chambers, the window would be open, white curtains floating out into the gathering evening and drifting on the breeze like a bridal veil on dark waters.



“Come,” murmured the big maple outside her window, holding out its many pleading palms.



“Come to me,” whispered the dusk, caressing her warm fingers on the window-sill, breathing stillness into her hair.



“It is time,” beckoned the moon, peering shyly over the trees.



“Christine...” sang the darkness beyond the glowing warmth of the house, “Christine...” sang the night.



Then her feet would find the chair by the window and the window-sill above it, and her hands would find the tiny hooks on the back of her gown, and open them one by one.



When she flew, her wings did not cause her pain.



“Christine...” called the voice of the air, rising and falling above her, soaring just out of reach and then dipping suddenly down into the abyss below. And she went plummetting after it, wings folded tightly to her body, the wind whistling in her ears and a cry of terror in her mouth as the earth came from the shadows to end her. She could see each treetop and chimney, each white night-flower in the grass. Then they turned, and veered upwards in a crescendo, so that the fear turned to thrill in her lungs, and they were rising, rising, until they found the air current together where to be still at last, and float.



There was warmth between them, trapped between skin and wings. It was hers, and she shared it gladly, knowing his days were not like her own, but cold. In the rustle of great black wings there was a percussion of claw and bone and feather, an accompaniment to his tales of the lands he had seen. He told her of cobras, sinuous and swaying, and the men who could charm them with their tune. He told her of great palaces of the Orient, where diaphanous veils hid-revealed the beauty of the women, caught like jewels in opulence not of their making. He spoke of these things as wonders, and took exception to her laughter.



She told him of the leaves on the ground, crunching with frost after the first chill. She told him of winter sunlight reaching timidly for a child’s brow, turning the snow around her to a thousand broken rainbows. She told him what it feels like to draw breath from a kiss. He could not understand, so she showed him, and then he did.



They left the slow current and gathered speed, launching themselves into blackness. Beyond the forest, away from the lights of the great city, beyond the first of the rivers, was the deepest night. They plunged through it, skimming trees, wings so close to sharp branches that they could shred in an instant – but always safe, just out of reach. He knew the way of the night and she followed unhesitatingly, moving as he moved, wingbeat against wingbeat, until the branches opened wide and there before them lay the great lake.



They landed beside it. There was moonlight in the water, glittering and moving, lapping gently at the pebbled shore. They stood in the tall grass, cold with dew and wet against her bare legs and feet. When she shuddered, he began to sing, wrapping her with music. She joined him then, and they rose again with a gentle current, their bodies more sinuous than the charmed serpents of the Orient, their wings diaphanous as the jewelled veils of desire. When the song ended, they simply flew, together, in the silence of moonlight and the distant murmur of willows in the lake, benevolent as spirits over the land that slumbered under their wings.



In the cold dark chambers, Raoul de Chagny sat unsleeping in the hard chair by the window, and watched the curtains drifting out and in, between moonlight and the four walls of the room. He never shut that window. It was not his to shut.



He picked up the dress that lay discarded by the chair, turning the open seam to see dark stains on the lining, blood where her shoulder blades were. The stains were in layers, new upon old, the older ones faded to brown. The newer ones were violet, almost beautiful in the dark. Raoul lifted the dress from the floor, and picked up the quill that fell from it, a black quill dipped in ink.



He lay in bed with his eyes open for some time, the bed-curtains open so he could see the window. He laid the quill he had found near his cheek, on the empty pillow beside him, and inhaled the fragrance of Christine’s skin, breathed it in until his chest ached from the fullness. He put the tip of the quill to his lips and sucked the taste of her blood from it, one drop to last until morning.



Sometimes, he woke shaking and frozen in the small hours, afraid he had shut the window, or the servants had, or the wind. Then he rushed to Christine’s chambers, heart pounding – only to find the window open as always. The white curtains swaying gently. Everything at peace. He would return to his room and sleep restlessly until dawn, dreaming of black wings crashing into a shuttered window, of violet, beautiful stains on the glass.



Other nights he woke hot and ill with sweat, and thought it was the wing-fever, like Christine’s. He would leap from bed, pulling off his nightclothes haphazardly, desperate to get to the mirror. But there were never any twists in the flesh of his back, nor bruises, nor cuts; not a sign of the bloodied wing-buds growing from his body to join him to Christine. Only the old scars, from when they had been children and Christine had tried to cut his wings out for him with his pen-knife, not knowing they would not grow. He would put his damp shirt on and climb back into bed, and dream instead of the closing window.



The window was open wide when Christine stepped through, and the dress lay folded neatly on a chair. She put it on, smiling as she crushed her wings beneath the bodice, while the darkness fell away behind her aching back, and a faint light cast a blue spell over the horizon. The birds were crying as she had cried, for the night that was over. A new day was here, and soon the birds would sing. It was reason enough to be happy.



She turned, briefly, and the light from the rising sun pierced her eyes. She smiled.



Her days began a minute after sunrise. She would kiss her husband.

запись создана: 31.05.2005 в 12:21

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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 13

Chapter 13 - From the Second Prison



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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 12

Chapter 12 - The Wallflowers



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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 11

Chapter 11 is now up: You Can Run



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The Big Red Button

DO NOT CLICK THIS LINK!



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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 10

For those interested, "A Solo For the Living" has just been updated.



Chapter 10 - Ablutions



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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 9

Chapter 9 is now posted: An Amusing Night Out



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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 8

Chapter 8 is now up: "The Chorus Girl's Husband".



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Oddities

Assuming that in both cases I know what I am doing and the audiences are equally friendly -- why is it so much more terrifying to demonstrate a dance step in front of 50 people than it is to give a seminar to the same number of people?



Come to think of it, it is also vastly more frightening to dance in front of 50 people than to give a lecture in front of 500.



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