A Tale of Two Phans
Chapter One: "What? Opera?'
The click-clack of a keyboard could be heard as seventeen-year-old Jenny Krueger typed furiously. It was a leisurely Saturday morning and she was spending it, of course, online. Specifically, at her favorite Phantom of the Opera message board. After having typed out her message about how Gerard Butler was quite possibly the best looking man in not only Scotland, but also the world—and that includes Jude Law and Brad Pitt—she sat back, cracked her fingers, and relaxed. She took a sip of Pepsi ™ and then almost spit it out as a particular thread title caught her eye.
What? How dare they! This elitist person had come onto a board for The Phantom of the Opera movie just to insult it? Come on, get a life! Gaston Leroux? Pfft, what is he, some guy who knocked off Andrew Lloyd Weber? That is what she, under the screenname "emmychristine," wrote in response. After spending five minutes rereading her message and making sure that she had insulted the poster enough, she sat back, satisfied, and as a personal reward put on the 2004 movie soundtrack.
She smiled serenely as Emmy Rossum's soft, sweet soprano deftly conquered a difficult opera song that no one had thought she could sing. But, then!—her eyes narrowed—that stupid fop's part came up. Despite the fact that she was alone, she made gagging motions.
"Roul? Blegh! Go away, you pansy; you don't love her like the Phantom does!" Her heart ached for the poor Phantom, who loved Christine so much but had lost her to an unworthy foe. Suddenly, she had the urge to go watch the movie for the 81st time. She put up her AIM away message and bounded away to her DVD shelf.
However, something happened on the way: she tripped! And it just so happened that she tripped so hard, she... she hit her head and... uh... was knocked... was knocked unconscious! Yeah, that's the ticket. So, yeah, she was knocked unconscious. And there she was lying on the ground, all... unconscious.
Poor Jenny awoke some hours later, rubbing her head and cursing her clumsiness. But then she started as her eyes caught her surroundings: she was no longer in her little bedroom in Wisconsin! She was lying on a cold floor, and thus found herself quite stiff as she gingerly tried to stand up. She almost fell down again as she realized that she was wearing a dress, one she had never seen before. What?
"Mademoiselle! Are you alright?" A woman had rushed over, and now spoke to her in French. Wait a second, how had she understood that?
"I think so." She blinked, realizing that she, too, had just spoken in French. Huh? What the freaking heck was going on?
"Oh, good. Are you new to the Paris Opera?"
Once more, Jenny gave a start. She glanced around at her surroundings and saw that she, indeed, was in the place from the movie.
"Yes, I am new to the Opera Populaire," she said.
The movie... Jenny must remember the movie! She knew that she was a decent singer and had what it took to become a prima donna. This was her chance!
Micaela Johnson snorted at the response to her thread on a message board for the Phantom of the Opera movie. Leroux ripped off Andrew Lloyd Webber? This "emmychristine" person clearly was that type of moronic Phan she detested. And to think that, according to her profile, she was in the same state! Argh! Rolling her eyes, Micaela clicked the option to reply and typed in a rather snarky answer that could possibly get her banned. Not that she cared; she only joined a board for that awful movie just to bash it. Some might call it trolling, but Micaela preferred to think of it as "venting steam."
Ever since January of 2005, the fated month in which she had seen the movie, Micaela had a major chip on her shoulder. She, quite honestly, hated Andrew Lloyd Webber and everything that he represented: his Phantom musical was, in her opinion, quite overrated and inferior to the Yeston-Kopit version, even though that bastardized Leroux's novel even more. Though the Phantom movie managed to be worse even than the musical. How could anyone think that Emmy Rossum was a good Christine? They needed to listen to a real soprano, like Kelli O'Hara or Natalie Dessay!
Yes, in other words, she was the dreaded Leroux elitist. Not only a Leroux elitist, but a musical elitist. She was convinced that Andrew Lloyd Webber was going to be the leading cause of the downfall of western civilization. The day that the Woman in White musical had closed due to actors falling ill, she had joked that it was because "God hates Andrew Lloyd Webber." Who was this British hack compared to il Dio himself, Stephen Sondheim? Or Sondheim's younger protégée, Adam Guettel? Or Jason Robert Brown! All of them could write circles around Webber!
And to think that some thought Phantom was real opera! Micaela had been raised with a love of opera; the thought of Phantom's dumb pop ballads being considered opera was so utterly repulsive that she could not even stand to let it linger in her mind. I mean, where were the cadenzas? The musical complexity? Ugh! Now, Leonard Bernstein, that was the closest to opera musical theatre would ever get.
Yes, Micaela loathed Webber's Phantom of the Opera. In fact, for freshman year drama class she had written a twenty minute speech on how it bastardized the Leroux novel. She did, however, like to listen to the singers. But not even seeing the tour production with Gary Mauer had warmed her to the musical; not even listening to the seventeen-year-old prodigy Amy Nuttall as Christine could change her mind. Nor even the resonant high notes of Rebecca Cain, or the surprisingly glittery upper register of Claire Moore. Nor Hugh Panaro, who had sung the best version of "Johanna" from Sweeney Todd that she had ever heard, or even her own personal Angel of Music Anthony Warlow.
Not that it ended at Phantom, of course. There were other offenders, too: RENT, Wicked, Brooklyn... she shuddered. Not to mention Jekyll and Hyde! Frank Wildhorn was just as bad as Webber, if not worse! When would people learn? Sondheim, people! SONDHEIM! Could anyone ever even match his magnum opus, Sweeney Todd? Or the intricate musical tapestry that was Passion? Or the clever Assassins? Or the gorgeous strains of Pacific Overtures? No! Not ever!
Suddenly, she felt like listening to Sweeney. So she stood up and fetched her cast recording—not soundtrack, thank you very much—from her shelf. But a wire had gotten strung around her computer chair legs, and as she stood up to push it out the chair caught, fell, and she with it.
When Micaela awoke a while later, she was lying on something hard. Confused, she stood up, and was greeted with a familiar sight: the foyer of le Palais Garnier, which she had seen a year ago when she went to Paris. She gasped and walked closer to the stairway. But, she was still a bit disoriented, and so she bumped into another girl.
"Oh! I'm sorry!" Micaela apologized.
"It's all right," the other girl said. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. Wow, she's like a Leroux Christine, Micaela thought.
Jenny looked at the girl who had just run into her. She was about her age, but... Oh my God! She looks like Christine! She had dark, curly hair and big brown eyes. Jenny was, quite frankly, envious.
Madame Giry, meanwhile, was looking at them both. "Are you two new?"
"Yes," Jenny said breathlessly. "Are there any spots in the chorus available?"
"As a matter of fact..." Madame Giry began to say, but Micaela cut her off:
"What?" She protested. "I can't sing in opera! I can't project properly yet, nor do I have the stamina at this age... and it's not time for a new season yet, so why are you holding auditions..."
"Project?" Madame Giry echoed, confused. "Anyway, there are two spots that just opened up—talk about a coincidence! Our director will just have to hear an audition from each of you."
Soon they were inside the theatre, and Jenny and Micaela were standing onstage.
"All right, I want you each to perform a piece. Mademoiselle Jenny, you're first."
Jenny, shaking from nervousness, walked to the center of the stage. She began to sing, and Micaela immediately recognized the song: "Think of Me."
Think of me, think of me fondly,
When we've said goodbye.
Remember me, once in a while
Please promise me you'll try.
When you find that once again
You long to take your heart back
And be free
If you ever find a moment,
Spare a thought for me…
We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But please promise me that sometimes
You will think of me ...
Think of all the things we've shared and seen
Don't think about the ways things might have been ...
Think of me, think of me waking,
Silent and resigned.
Imagine me, trying too hard
To put you from my mind.
Recall those days, look back on all those times
Think of the things we'll never do
There will never be a day when I won't think of you ...
She wasn't bad, Micaela thought. In need of lessons—she straight-toned everything, for instance—but she had potential. She wished that she could have sung "Think of Me" as effortlessly.
Flowers fade, the fruits of Summer fade
They have their season, so do we ...
But please promise me that sometimes,
You will think
Micaela frowned as the girl did the Emmy Rossum "cadenza" on the "of me" line. Ah well.
Madame Giry nodded, then turned to Micaela. "Okay, your turn."
"I don't have any sheet music," Micaela told her.
"Oh, that's fine," Madame Giry replied. "When you begin singing, our pianist will magically know whatever you're singing, and music will accompany it. As it did for your friend over there."
Micaela made a face. Anyone who sings the movie version of "Think of Me" is NOT my friend! But then she composed herself, and stepped to the center of the stage. She'd sing something a real classical aria (unlike that horrible Andrew Lloyd Webber pop ballad,) something appropriate for a young soprano. She took a breath and began to sing:
Zeffiretti lusinghieri
Deh vola...
She began the coloratura line, but then Madame Giry abruptly cut her off.
"What is that?"
Micaela looked at her, confused. "It's an aria. From Idomeneo."
Madame Giry stared blankly at her.
Micaela tried again. "You know... by Mozart?"
"Mademoiselle," Madame Giry stated, "we do not do that type of singing here. 20th century musical theatre only! Preferably Andrew Lloyd Webber, Boubil and Schonberg, Frank Wildhorn, or Stephen Schwartz. Wicked, only. None of that "Meadowlark" or "Lion Tamer" nonsense."
"I can't!" Micaela might as well have just heard "Britney Spears." What was this, American Idol? What did that horrible shouting in Wicked have to do with opera, with the exception of the delightful lyric coloratura Kristin Chenoweth?
"Do you want to be in the chorus or turned out back onto the streets of 1870 Paris? Where you'll likely starve to death or be forced to resort to becoming a beggar or a lady of the evening?"
"Honestly," Micaela said, "it's better than singing pop musical. Besides, 1870 is during the Paris Commune!"
"Not in Joel Schumacher's world it isn't!" Madame Giry retorted. "Now, I'll ask you one last time: do you want to sing appropriate repertoire for your audition, or do you want to leave?"
Micaela gave a huff. "I'd rather die than sing illegitimate musical theatre!" She turned and walked away. As she was walking through the foyer, however, someone grabbed her and pulled her aside, into a hollow pillar.
"Your voice is beautiful." A deep voice said. Or rather, growled. Micaela winced, knowing that this was Gerard Butler's Erik. Or, rather, Gerik.
"Really, now! This is highly out of character!" She complained.
"You're not scared of me? Come on! I'm wearing a mask and a cloak and look at the spooky lighting!"
"You nearly lost to Raoul in a swordfight," she said dryly.
"Whatever," Gerik said. "The point is that I like your singing. The Opera Populaire could use someone like you."
"Seriously, this is so not right!" Micaela couldn't get over the blatant OOC-ness. "You should be killing me! And, so what, you like my voice? That's no compliment! You preferred Emmy Rossum's "singing," she made air quotations, "to Margaret Preece's! That's a sin!"
"Do you want to be the lead soprano or not?" He demanded.
"There's no such thing!" Micaela hissed. "Now let me out of here!"
"Only if you agree to go and audition."
"No!"
"Yes! Or would you prefer that I leave you in here?"
"Please, you're hardly clever." Erik was a genius, but Gerik wasn't. "I could find my way out."
"Are you so sure?"
Micaela sighed. "Fine, since you won't shut up about it, I'll go audition."
Madame Giry normally might not have let Micaela audition, but (G)erik must have changed her mind, so she gave Micaela another chance. She sang "Is It Too Late" from the off-Broadway show My Life With Albertine. As she got the last part of the song, she noticed a mysterious figure watching her.
Impatiently waiting... Insatiably longing...
I shall board the train at once
If you say to me, "return."
(G)Erik listened to the girl sing the high note. She had a gorgeous tone.
Oh, I burn to know. I yearn to know.
"She's good," Jenny said softly, watching from the side, "but, she's so opera-y. And what is up with her voice dribbling like that?" She was referring, of course, to the girl's vibrato.
My whole heart is aching.
My whole heart is yours.
Your Albertine...
Your Albertine...
Micaela finished the song, and Madame Giry approached her.
"Well," the latter sighed. "You're both in. As for you," she turned to Micaela, "your singing reminds me of la Carlotta's. That's not a compliment, by the way."
Thinking of Margaret Preece's singing, Micaela, however, took it as one.