Director: Brian De Palma
Writers: Brian De Palma, Louisa Rose
Photography: Larry Pizer
Music: Paul Williams
Editor: Paul Hirsch
Cast: Paul Williams, William Finley, Jessica Harper, George Memmoli, Gerrit Graham, Rod Serling
Phantom of the Paradise is one of director and cowriter Brian De Palma’s wacky experiments from the ‘70s. It wallows in that era’s sense of decadence, with a voiceover intro by Rod Serling and a sloppy munge of classic horror or horror-adjacent narratives like Goethe’s Faust (about the German historical and literary figure, not the German band), Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray, Edgar Allan Poe’s “Cask of Amontillado,” and, most obviously, the Gaston Leroux novel and subsequent Universal movie The Phantom of the Opera. Fair enough—obvious enough. All you have to do is look at Phantom of the Paradise to see those things. But the last time I watched it I ended up spending a lot of time trying to think of the term for this type of picture, because I think it’s one of the better examples. Is it really “rock musical” (as per Wikipedia)? I was even willing to go with “rock opera.” Candidates for comparison I thought of included Flesh for Frankenstein aka Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Performance, The Rocky Horror Show, The Man Who Fell to Earth, Grace of My Heart, and Velvet Goldmine, and Wikipedia had a few more good ideas as well (Jesus Christ Superstar, Grease, The Wiz, Pink Floyd – The Wall, Ken Russell’s Tommy, so on so forth).
Whatever you call it, De Palma’s picture flopped on release in 1974 but became a cult classic over time as midnight movies and VHS tech became more common, which is approximately where I came in. A friend passed it along to me in the early ‘80s and I flipped for it. The plot goes all over the place but holds together, and holds up too, and I get a kick out of all the rock signifiers. Swan (Paul Williams) is a certain type of brutally ambitious producer, impresario (owner of the Paradise theater), record label honcho (“Death Records”), and general rock ‘n’ roll savant. He is reminiscent at once of Phil Spector, Rodney Bingenheimer, and Arte Johnson. The Juicy Fruits and their various incarnations are Swan’s breakthrough project. The quasi-tragic Winslow Leach (William Finley) comes across like an era-specific Elton John / Billy Joel / Todd Rundgren kind of piano-banging songwriter. Although Leach is literally “the phantom of the Paradise” the star of the picture is more like Swan, which raises the very interesting problem of Paul Williams.
Phantom of the Paradise is one of director and cowriter Brian De Palma’s wacky experiments from the ‘70s. It wallows in that era’s sense of decadence, with a voiceover intro by Rod Serling and a sloppy munge of classic horror or horror-adjacent narratives like Goethe’s Faust (about the German historical and literary figure, not the German band), Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray, Edgar Allan Poe’s “Cask of Amontillado,” and, most obviously, the Gaston Leroux novel and subsequent Universal movie The Phantom of the Opera. Fair enough—obvious enough. All you have to do is look at Phantom of the Paradise to see those things. But the last time I watched it I ended up spending a lot of time trying to think of the term for this type of picture, because I think it’s one of the better examples. Is it really “rock musical” (as per Wikipedia)? I was even willing to go with “rock opera.” Candidates for comparison I thought of included Flesh for Frankenstein aka Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Performance, The Rocky Horror Show, The Man Who Fell to Earth, Grace of My Heart, and Velvet Goldmine, and Wikipedia had a few more good ideas as well (Jesus Christ Superstar, Grease, The Wiz, Pink Floyd – The Wall, Ken Russell’s Tommy, so on so forth).
Whatever you call it, De Palma’s picture flopped on release in 1974 but became a cult classic over time as midnight movies and VHS tech became more common, which is approximately where I came in. A friend passed it along to me in the early ‘80s and I flipped for it. The plot goes all over the place but holds together, and holds up too, and I get a kick out of all the rock signifiers. Swan (Paul Williams) is a certain type of brutally ambitious producer, impresario (owner of the Paradise theater), record label honcho (“Death Records”), and general rock ‘n’ roll savant. He is reminiscent at once of Phil Spector, Rodney Bingenheimer, and Arte Johnson. The Juicy Fruits and their various incarnations are Swan’s breakthrough project. The quasi-tragic Winslow Leach (William Finley) comes across like an era-specific Elton John / Billy Joel / Todd Rundgren kind of piano-banging songwriter. Although Leach is literally “the phantom of the Paradise” the star of the picture is more like Swan, which raises the very interesting problem of Paul Williams.
Paul Williams is another point that roots the picture deeply in the ‘70s because, since then, his biography has only made him more featherweight and irrelevant as a rock star. He not only stars in Phantom of the Paradise but also wrote all the music—it may not be great, but it’s certainly rock. In fact, Williams is chiefly a songwriter. His hits include Three Dog Night’s “An Old-Fashioned Love Song” and “Out in the Country,” the Carpenters’ “We’ve Only Just Begun” and “Rainy Days and Mondays,” and Bobby Sherman’s “Cried Like a Baby.” I love a few of those songs, notably the Carpenters and “Out in the Country.” The Carpenters are another interesting case. I believe since the ‘70s, now, they have swung well out of favor and more recently back in, even to deification levels in some quarters. Not everyone is a believer and I may be giving away things about myself to say all those Paul Williams songs I like are unfortunately in the realm of “guilty pleasure,” a term and concept I try to avoid. But I have to go there with Paul Williams. He’s no rock star, even if he might have seemed like one briefly in the 1972-1975 period.
But perversely that is exactly part of what makes Phantom of the Paradise such sterling entertainment. De Palma not only doesn’t understand rock, apparently—at least not the way I do—but he seems determined to be obnoxiously oblivious or at least deliberately dense about it. The Juicy Fruits alone—across their incarnations—hark explicitly to the Beach Boys (“the Beach Bums”), Sha Na Na (“the Juicy Fruits”), and KISS (“the Undeads”). That’s a reasonably shallow interpretation of rock history—but not implausible. And in any event Brian De Palma does not care. He is too busy having fun making his movie sparkle with unique images, shots, and setups. He does split-screen, he does handheld, he lets his surging instincts roam wild. His moviemaking sensibilities, arguably still nascent, are nonetheless plainly there.
Perhaps his greatest flight here is Beef (Gerrit Graham). Swan wants to make Beef the star of the Faustian opera that he has stolen from Leach and intends to stage at the Paradise, whereas Leach wants it to be Phoenix (the ever durable Jessica Harper). Beef is a concatenation of exploding post-Stonewall stereotypes, droll and flaming, yet as a character without a lick of talent, just an ability to shriek unpleasantly. That’s rock, baby. He appears to be modeled on Gary Glitter (who did not shriek unpleasantly but turned out to be unpleasant in much worse ways). De Palma gives his movie and Beef a spectacular, apocalyptic finish, electrocuted live on stage in performance.
So among other things Phantom of the Paradise is a time capsule out of approximately exactly 1974. It is already fighting with the conventional wisdom of what that time looked like and felt like even as inevitably it somehow captures it all in very silly and yet compelling ways. It’s not one of the prolific De Palma’s five best pictures but it probably deserves a place in a top 10. It’s worth seeing for all kinds of reasons. Call it an offbeat curiosity. Call it a guilty pleasure. Make a point of getting to it one day.
But perversely that is exactly part of what makes Phantom of the Paradise such sterling entertainment. De Palma not only doesn’t understand rock, apparently—at least not the way I do—but he seems determined to be obnoxiously oblivious or at least deliberately dense about it. The Juicy Fruits alone—across their incarnations—hark explicitly to the Beach Boys (“the Beach Bums”), Sha Na Na (“the Juicy Fruits”), and KISS (“the Undeads”). That’s a reasonably shallow interpretation of rock history—but not implausible. And in any event Brian De Palma does not care. He is too busy having fun making his movie sparkle with unique images, shots, and setups. He does split-screen, he does handheld, he lets his surging instincts roam wild. His moviemaking sensibilities, arguably still nascent, are nonetheless plainly there.
Perhaps his greatest flight here is Beef (Gerrit Graham). Swan wants to make Beef the star of the Faustian opera that he has stolen from Leach and intends to stage at the Paradise, whereas Leach wants it to be Phoenix (the ever durable Jessica Harper). Beef is a concatenation of exploding post-Stonewall stereotypes, droll and flaming, yet as a character without a lick of talent, just an ability to shriek unpleasantly. That’s rock, baby. He appears to be modeled on Gary Glitter (who did not shriek unpleasantly but turned out to be unpleasant in much worse ways). De Palma gives his movie and Beef a spectacular, apocalyptic finish, electrocuted live on stage in performance.
So among other things Phantom of the Paradise is a time capsule out of approximately exactly 1974. It is already fighting with the conventional wisdom of what that time looked like and felt like even as inevitably it somehow captures it all in very silly and yet compelling ways. It’s not one of the prolific De Palma’s five best pictures but it probably deserves a place in a top 10. It’s worth seeing for all kinds of reasons. Call it an offbeat curiosity. Call it a guilty pleasure. Make a point of getting to it one day.
Need to see this.
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