Opera Populaire 1919
Daylight
We fade into a black-and-white setting, grainy, and bleak. It is raining, the air is dank, and the opera house is grey and crumbling. There is very little activity in front except for some kids running up the steps. A once glorious monument shunned by the modern world.
A 1919 version of a very rich man’s car pulls in front of the theater, an aristocrat’s family crest on the door. There are three passengers: A liveried chauffeur, a dark figure in the passengers compartment, and accompanying him is a nurse/nun. A custom made beautifully crafted, caned wheelchair is extricated from the car as the dark figure emerges. The hand-made boots of the dark figure step out as the nurse positions him into the wheelchair, adjusting the footrests.
The nurse pushes the wheelchair toward the entrance to the theater. Inside are statues with limbs missing, along the great chipped pillars. A lackluster sign reads “Public Auction”, today’s event taking place. The stairs leading up to the main entrance are filthy; the place seems abandoned. The noise of traffic, klaxons, and horses can be heard from outside, while inside an Auctioneer’s gavel smacks the surface.
“Sold!” A man shouts. “Your number, sir? Thank you.”
Within the main entrance into the deserted hall is a vast, cracked stairway leading up to various levels of the foyer, scarred by a fire long ago. There is rubbish everywhere, dust floats through the shafts of grey light piercing through the broken windows. The auctioneer’s voice can still be heard.
“Lot 663 then, ladies and gentlemen: A poster for this house’s production of “Hannibal” by Chalumeau.”
“Showing here,” A porter calls out.
As the nurse wheels the old man through a set of doors, the three enter the auditorium which was also ravaged by that same fire. The seats are torn, even uprooted and piled on top of each other. Shafts of daylight cut through the darkness from the cracks in the leaking ceiling. At the far end of the stalls in a clear space, there are a dozen people grouped around the portly auctioneer on an improvised podium. Next to the auctioneer stands the porter presenting the poster for Hannibal: A diva holding a severed head.
The bidders are mainly seedy, dusty men in heavy coats, junk dealers. There is one old woman, Madame Giry, who stands a little apart. She is dressed in black, her covered in a black veiling like a widow. Her years as a dancer and Ballet Mistress assist her elegant, perfect posture. As the auctioneer calls for a price, several hands go up including the old man’s, though the nurse did most of the bidding while he sits there stone-faced.
“Do I have ten francs?” The auctioneer calls out, looking around. ‘Five then. Five I am bid. Six, seven. Against you, sir, seven. Eight. Eight once. Selling twice. Sold (SMACK!), to Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny.”
The blow of the gavel echoes around the space, as the poster is handed off among the many contents of the opera house being auctioned off. There are statues, some covered with huge canvases. There are boxes, trunks, props and opera memorabilia. Madame Giry remains stoic, almost mysterious; barely needing the black cane by her side. She turns to the owner of the winning bid, Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, the man in the wheelchair, guided by his nurse/nun.
Although fifteen years younger than Madame Giry, he does not enjoy her good health. He seems small and fatigued in his beautifully tailored clothes, a cashmere thrown around his barely functioning legs.
“Lot 664!” The auctioneer proceeds. “A wooden pistol and three human skulls from the 1831 production of “Robert le Diable” by Meyerbeer. Ten francs for this. Ten, thank you. Ten francs still. Fifteen, thank you, sir Fifteen I am bid. Going at fifteen…”
Madame Giry watches as Raoul approaches in his wheelchair. He looks up and sees her. There is much unsaid between them, bearers of dark secrets. The gavel echoes again around the hall.
“Your number sir?” The auctioneer concludes, before continuing. “Loot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mache musical box in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Showing here!” The Porter calls, holding it up.
The Porter sets the box in motion, as a simple, yet haunting tune plays as both Raoul and Madame Giry stare at the musical box. Little did anyone know, the box held great meaning for them both.
“May I commence at fifteen francs?” The Auctioneer asked.
Madame Giry raises her hand.
“Fifteen, thank you.”
The nurse raises her hand.
“Yes, twenty from you, sir, thank you very much.”
“Twenty-five,” Madame Giry calls.
“Twenty-five on my left, thank you madam, Twenty-Five I am bid.”
Again, the nurse raises her hand.
“Thirty, and thirty-five?”
Madame Giry stares at Raoul, her expression seems to soften. She realizes how much this means to the sickly man. Madame Giry looks away and shakes her head silently.
“Selling at thirty francs, then,” The Auctioneer raises his gavel. “Thirty once, thirty twice… (SMACK!) Sold for thirty francs. To the Vicomte de Chagny. Thank you sir.”
The box is handed to Raoul. He thanks Madame Giry with his eyes, then studies the papier-mache monkey. He suddenly starts to sing, quietly, half to himself, half to the box.
Raoul (Sings):
A collector’s piece indeed…
Every detail exactly as she said…
She often spoke of you, my friend…
Your velvet lining, and your figurine of lead…
Will you still play,
When all the rest of us are dead?
“Lot 666 then, a chandelier in pieces,” The Auctioneer resumes.
All attention turns to the mammoth chandelier resting on the floor of the auditorium covered in canvas. Eerie music creeps in, as Madame Giry can barely look to each other.
“Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera,” The Auctioneer continues. “A mystery never fully explained. We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts of it for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when re-assembled. Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination, gentlemen?”
The porters whip off the canvas, the Auctioneer switches on the chandelier by igniting a huge battery. There is an enormous flash as a thunderous organ overture begins. The chandelier, immense and glittering, begins to slowly rise above the stalls. At the same time, a gust of wind whips up the dust and rubbish of the auditorium, almost blowing away time. Raoul’s eyes widen as the story of his life replays in his mind.
As the chandelier rises, the years along the faces of Madame Giry and Raoul fall away: Their features and skin clear, their eyes brighten. The entire theater seems to gain color, the gas lights all along the stage come on.
The red velvet seats are restored, the marble and the statues gleam, the paint glistens. The winds of time restore the once magnificent theatre. The chandelier is still rising, rising until all its features are restored and it perches itself on the ceiling overlooking the Opera Populaire…
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