May 19th, 2005

satyr, drool you bastards, bosom

Thoughts upon seeing part of Phantom of the Opera

Sure, a third of Erik's face is horribly mutilated. The storyline would be a touch more credible if the other 98% of his body weren't pure hunka-hunka burnin' hello, sailor. It takes his story out of the realm of twisted tragedy and into the realm of "Hunks with Body Dysmorphia, today on Oprah."

If someone magically switched Christine Diae, Cosette, and Mina, would anyone notice?

Did 19th-century virgins really not mind when angels in tuxes felt them up?

How did Erik make those candles waterproof, anyway?

Where does he keep the horse?

Are all operas unspeakably bad?

Why is the theme of the opera house's decor "naked women in pain"? And why are they twelve feet tall?

The entire story is creepy, in a made-for-fangirls way. Christine is fucked in the head and her foster mother's colluding; she glows like an angel when she sings, in that magical way that only Mary Sues can; nothing, nothing whatsoever, seems to pierce her anti-reality bubble; and there are floods of roses and lace everywhere, plus an easy-on-the-eyes yet tortured man who, from his apparent age, started the Phantom racket when he was eight years old. It's like a Victorian novelist and an anime writer got together and made pr0n for 13-year-olds.

I'm going to have to finish watching it. I mean, tortured hunk! He's like catnip in red velvet. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm about 15 years too old to really, truly, deeply enjoy it the way it was meant to be enjoyed.