What Came in Dreams

There's a good reason the theatre is one of our oldest institutions. A group of people in a darkened space, collectively taking part in suspended disbelief – taking part in something that's like life, but that is enhanced and contorted for the sake of spectacle. Diction is refined and poignant, movements calculated, relationships more dramatic and passionate than you seemed to remember, and the whole look has a polished sheen. And I'm not just describing a multimillion dollar blockbuster on the Imax screen – it could be a one-man show, so long as there's that undefinable characteristic that has been simplified and reduced to “theatrical.”

Escapism is the most lucrative business on the planet, hands down. There are plenty of people who scoff at spectacle, but their criticisms are usually a double-edged sword – Michael Bay won't stand the test of time in the same way as Orson Wells, but the former didn't make Transformers and wind up as a jobless hobo, either. Sometimes, people just want something over the top. Something loud, something flashy, something that's been somehow elevated beyond the ordinary. That, to me, is a crucial part of the stage theatre experience – people dress up, drink wine in the foyer, buy glossy programs, and sit in carpeted balconies overlooking gilded ornamentation. What happens on stage is, of course, the raison d'etre, but the tantalizing tease beforehand can't be overlooked.

The St. James Theatre in downtown Wellington opened its doors over a century ago, fell into a decline that nearly saw it demolished over the past twenty years. However, the Historic Places Trust intervened, commandeering a refurbishing project that ended with a beautiful theatre that has all the pomp of the Theatre Royal Haymarket in London. It feels like a special place, even with a bare stage before the curtain comes up.

Oh, and it's reputably built on top of an old cemetery and haunted. Some kind of amazing luck kept that tidbit from me until after I'd been to a sold-out performance of The Phantom of the Opera during its New Zealand debut by Wellington Musical Theatre.

You know Phantom, whether you know it or not. Andrew Lloyd Webber's deliciously Gothic romance of what lurks beneath the Paris Opera House really is the go-to musical – 130 million people have been in the audience to listen to the music of the night, and the production has grossed $5.6 billion since it premiered at Her Majesty's on the West End in 1986. That chunk of change is more than any other film or stage production in history, which ought to tell you something. That clash of the organ pipes as the eponymous spectre appears on stage is as recognizable as “The Imperial March,” and carries something of the same significance.

Gaston Leroux's 1911 novel, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, wasn't a bestseller – if anything, it was an obscure relic before it turned into the musical. The stage show opens in the same year that the novel first appeared, unceremoniously at an auction of used theatre props. The atmosphere is tense – you're waiting for something, you're just not sure what. A few set pieces are sold, and then Lot 666 is up for auction: the chandelier that played a part in the disaster, decades earlier, involving the Phantom of the Opera. The auctioneer's voice raises as he explains how the broken chandelier has been restored and fitted with electric lights, so that we can all appreciate how it might have looked. In a blinding flash, it's hoisted from the edge of the stage to its perch, and the booming overture blasts from the orchestra pit, reverberating through the theatre.

I knew a couple of the more well-known songs from Phantom – the titular track and “Music of the Night” – but even my rough idea of the plot wasn't much. Odd that, in this era of instant spoilers everywhere, I could go this long without knowing what happens in the most popular piece of storytelling entertainment out there. I decided, though, that blessed with this naivety, I didn't want to know too much before going. Everything, from the score to the finale, was going to be seen (and heard) with reasonably fresh eyes from Row G in the stalls.

It's 1881, and rehearsals at the Opera House are interrupted as a backdrop dangerously falls amongst the cast. Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André, two bourgeois caricatures who just bought the Opera House, get their first introduction to the strange goings-on linked to the Phantom, at the same time as their prima donna, Carlotta, gets fed up with the hauntings and huffs off. It's just the setup for meek chorus girl Christine Daaé to take over – turns out she can handle the role, having received tutelage from an ethereal source she doesn't understand. She attributes it to her Angel of Music that her deceased father sent her from Heaven, but in her dressing room, a masked tuxedo figure materializes in her mirror. If you haven't linked the strands, your P.O. Box address is literally “Beneath a Rock.”

There's good and bad to a non-professional group doing a big production of something so recognizable. You're almost guaranteed to sell well, because people know it. But, because people know it, there are expectations – and this isn't like the permanent, big budget stages of the West End or Broadway. I think the ladies next to me were a bit disappointed that the chandelier didn't actually crash to the ground at the end of the first act (it was a big bang and flash), and of course the sets weren't as complicated and full on as in the more famous manifestations. However, when the mirror opens up and Christine follows the Phantom down to the underground lair, it's exactly what you'd expect: the fog, the music, the boat, the devilish organ. And Chris Crowe and Barbara Graham, in the lead roles, know how to sing these parts.

The comedic shenanigans above ground aren't the important parts, and they're rightfully overshadowed by the fierce love triangle that emerges between the Phantom, Christine, and the new patron Raoul. Just before the first act finishes, Christine and Raoul escape to the starlit roof of the Opera House and declare their love – and when the Phantom emerges from behind the stone pillars, you get something of the loneliness and emotional anguish that this show is about, the truth that lurks beneath the darkness. Whether you believe the antihero protagonist is a true phantom or not, the anger and betrayal in that moment is undeniably human.

The second act was about the final push to capture the Phantom and end his grip over the Opera House. I don't need to go into the details of the climax in the underground chambers, as Raoul, Christine, and the Phantom pair off while a furious mob chases the deformed maestro with the intent to kill – it's worth seeing though, whichever side of the tragic romance you happen to align with. When it ended (all too soon, I figured), the melodic themes that ran through the whole show were bouncing around in my head, and the final, half-triumphant and half-heartbreaking lyrics, “It's over now, the music of the night,” gave me the kind of chills that last long enough so that you can eventually blame the crisp Wellington evening air. That's theatrical.

From the class of the St. James Theatre, I put on dirty work clothes and gumboots today, heading a few hours north of the capital city, over the green, winding Rimutaka Ranges and along the flat countryside of the Wairarapa as far as the nearly nonexistent town of Alfredton. That's where we've been replanting native New Zealand trees in what once was a sheep paddock, taking a quad bike up a slick, muddy trail.

There are plenty of mountains in the North Island too, but whereas the South Island is a wild, untamed country, the rolling green hills in this area are much more pastoral. Wherever the pinpoint on the map, this is a special place, adrift in the South Pacific.

The rain that had been belting down on Wellington all day held off as we planted about 50 trees along the hillside, munching muffins and fruit amongst the sheep, who were contently grazing and only stopping to look at us every so often. Just another Kiwi slice I've been lucky enough to sample – and that final curtain call is still more than a month away.

Cheers,
rb