A Spectre Is Haunting The Opera

Art, Exploitation, and De Palma’s The Phantom of the Paradise

by Chris Woodward

The struggle of artists against exploitation of their art by those with means is eternal. This fight is more prominent today, as corporations increasingly merge into behemoths that own basically every mode of producing and distributing art—a fact that corporations have tried to disguise by elevating producers and other businesspeople as the “true” auteurs, ersatz creative figures who are positioned as equaling or exceeding the actual creatives involved. This is necessary in giant, conglomerate media since they are focused on pumping out uniform and easily digestible franchises rather than putting forth unique creative visions.

It’s ironic, then, that a vital depiction of this thoroughly modern struggle between artist and exploitation can be found in Brian De Palma’s 1974 rock opera, The Phantom of the Paradise. An adaptation of the classic horror story The Phantom of the Opera, De Palma’s version puts forth a wry and comedic subversion of the power dynamics inherent in the original story by centering the Phantom and his struggles with capitalistic theft of his art. In De Palma’s telling, the true villain of the film is a successful and powerful producer who masquerades as a creative, while the Phantom is not a lowly ghost daring to haunt polite theater society, but rather an avenging auteur lashing out at the structures of power that seek to exploit his art. Add to this mixture many of the themes and images that will come to dominate his more widely known films, and you arrive at a re-imagined Phantom that is distinctly De Palma. 

The original Phantom of the Opera depicts a disfigured man living in the catacombs of the Paris Opera House who develops a fascination with a budding singer. He first begins to tutor her in singing, then uses intimidation and violence to try to force the owners of the opera to make her the lead performer. When the Phantom is rebuffed, he kidnaps the singer to his dwelling below, eventually culminating in a successful rescue by her lover, the viscount Raoul, and the Phantom’s subsequent death.

This classic version is the inspiration for the majority of modern adaptations, and it ultimately positions the aristocracy—the owners of the Paris Opera House and Raoul the viscount— against the Phantom and his decidedly more “lower class” trappings. (And the Phantom is quite literally “lower” class, considering he lives beneath the other characters in catacombs.) The opera’s owners are so opposed to the idea that someone beneath their position would tell them how to run their Opera House that they’re willing to withstand lethal attacks to maintain control over the venue—and, by extension, the arts.

The opera’s owners are so opposed to the idea that someone beneath their position would tell them how to run their Opera House that they’re willing to withstand lethal attacks to maintain control over the venue—and, by extension, the arts.

De Palma’s version replaces the Phantom with Winslow Leach, a composer whose music is stolen by the successful and powerful music producer, Swan (devilishly played by Paul Williams, who also wrote all the songs for the film). Swan then gets the help of the police to frame Leach as a drug-dealer and have him sent to prison. After hearing a butchered version of his song, Leach escapes from prison, winds up disfigured, and—donning the guise of the Phantom—begins a campaign of terror against Swan and his soon-to-open rock palace, The Paradise. Unlike the opera owners of the original, though, Swan is willing to cut a deal with his Phantom: stop terrorizing the Paradise and Leach can finish his music. Moreover, Leach’s favored singer, Phoenix, can sing the lead.

Swan hails from an aristocracy that will be more familiar to 20th and 21st century audiences: he’s a capitalist, and one that De Palma shows his disdain for by positioning him as the true villain of the film, rather than the creative Phantom. Swan is never shown to actually create any of the art that he sells, and yet he is as revered by the public as the actual artists from which he steals.

While the theft of music by an artist is also one of the driving motivations for the Phantom in the sumptuous 1943 Universal adaptation, the idea of Leach’s melancholic piano cantata being commodified and reworked into pop music is something truly unique to De Palma. There’s even a biting scene that drives home just how fungible art is to Swan by showing him holding auditions for various acts to play Leach’s song in different commercial radio-friendly styles. The endlessly adaptive nature of the producer/exploitative class in pursuit of profit is seen again in Swan’s house band for the Paradise, which starts out as a ‘50s kitsch rock band before transforming into a Beach Boys pastiche and, finally, an Alice Cooper/KISS-style theatrical horror band. To Swan, the music is nothing more than a widget to sell in the most profitable package possible.

Theft is not the only crime on display in the film; bloodshed also becomes another commodity for Swan. Being the capitalist he is, Swan betrays the deal with Leach almost immediately, the blood not yet dry on the contract. Rather than Leach’s preferred singer, Phoenix, Swan chooses the effete glam rock god, Beef—stripping Leach not only of his music but now also his creative control. After Beef is murdered on stage by Leach in retaliation, Swan plans to have Phoenix perform the lead the following night. Swan, seeing how the fans went wild for Beef’s onstage demise, sets up a sniper to take Phoenix out to capitalize on the resultant publicity. He was not content to steal Leach’s music and profit off of that, but Swan also wants to profit off the deaths of both Beef and Phoenix.

The film also depicts a continual cycle of exploitation, as we come to realize that Swan is not just exploiter but exploited, too, with the revelation he has made a literal deal with the devil for eternal youth. In a nod to Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey, Swan will only age on videotapes, while remaining forever young in the real world. Of course, any deal with the Devil is inherently exploitative and this leads to Swan’s ultimate undoing: Leach discovers Swan’s trove of videotapes and destroys them in a fire, destroying Swan in the process.

The celebration of the creative is evident not only in the story but in the style of the film.

The celebration of the creative is evident not only in the story but in the style of the film, as well. Rather than a straightforward horror retelling of the classic story, De Palma injects his personal style, personality, and references. Take, for example, a split-screen single take shot where De Palma both foreshadows his extensive use of the split diopter shot (used to keep two objects in a frame at different planes both in focus) but also nods to Welles’ Touch of Evil. The film also contains references to Faust, Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Frankenstein, and most prominently, Psycho–Hitchcock being De Palma’s most oft-cited influence.

Another of De Palma’s core themes that he revisits frequently is surveillance and voyeurism. In this film, Swan has video cameras all over the theater and his own home capturing everything. Stacking voyeurism upon voyeurism, there’s a scene where Leach observes Swan taking Phoenix to bed, only for it to be revealed that, via video surveillance, Swan is watching Leach watching them. In employing these themes and exercising his own style, De Palma reinforces the auteur and displays what can happen when given a chance to express their art.

Now more than ever, true artistic visions like De Palma’s are in peril, and unlike in The Phantom of the Paradise there is no true singular villain to fight, no capitalist impresario whose defeat can free art. Our true enemies are faceless corporations that have merged into behemoths, and which now own nearly every mode of producing and distributing films, television, and music. For proof, look no further than the recent example of Taylor Swift, who is one of the highest-selling and possibly most powerful recent pop stars and yet still lost the rights to some of her classic albums to the owner of a small corporate label. As far as we know, a bemasked Taylor is not haunting and terrorizing the nefarious label—but perhaps she should be.

Stories like Taylor Swift’s and others continue to keep Phantom of the Paradise relevant. Through De Palma’s movie, we can fight against the corporate exploiters vicariously alongside Winslow Leach. De Palma, however, is not an idealist: Leach manages to kill Swan but fails to reclaim his music and, ultimately, dies. De Palma reminds us that one person, no matter how strident they defend their art, cannot ultimately triumph against the corporations of the world—at least not without cost. 

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