Gerard Butler, Emmy Rossum, Patrick Wilson, Miranda Richardson, Minnie Driver, Simon Callow, Victor McGuire, Jennifer Ellison
The problem with the movie version of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s musical is that it’s not really a movie. It’s a tombstone. A garish, gargoyled monument to the West End composer’s bombastic vision of what entertainment should be.
Hamstrung by the maestro’s presence on the project (Lloyd Weber gets a co-writing credit), director Joel Schumacher (Phone Booth, Tigerland) throws in the towel. With no real drama or characters to direct, he encourages his art department to max out their budgets on a procession of lavish but emotionally empty set pieces. Truly, this is a musical from which you come away whistling the scenery.
It’s not like a successful movie can’t be made from a stage musical. Remember Rob Marshall’s fast-paced, visually witty, well acted Chicago? Well, Phantom is nothing like it. Watching Phantom is like being stuck at a railway crossing when a freight train rolls through – an endless kerchunk-a-chunk-a-chunk. You can be hypnotised by its scale, by the sheer horsepower required to move it all, but even while you’re marvelling at the engineering, you’re drumming your fingers waiting for the last car to pass.
For those of you who’ve been on another planet for the past twenty years, here’s a recap of the story: Pretty Parisian chorus girl Christine (Emmy Rossum) ousts the Opera Populaire’s resident diva Carlotta (Minnie Driver) thanks to the intervention of the mysterious Phantom (Gerard Butler) who lives in the catacombs under the theatre. But when she falls in love with childhood sweetheart, Raoul (Patrick Wilson), jealousy sends the Phantom on an all-singing murderous rampage.
The “adaptation” sticks closely to the original stage play, with the exception of a ridiculous Elephant Man-style flashback to a circus freak show – presumably included to help audiences come to terms with the Phantom’s problem with self-image. Just so that everyone understands why the Phantom insists on breaking all of his full-length mirrors.
The acting - such as it is - hardly requires comment. The lovers affect dreamy, middle-distance stares, the Phantom struts and thunders, swishing his cape. Minnie Driver almost gives herself a hernia as the manic diva Carlotta, and everyone else is either a British character “face” or a vehicle for an elaborate wig or costume. Colourful, certainly, but meaningless to anyone not involved in the judging of Best Costume awards.
