Tag: obsession

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Unmasked

“Think of me, think of me fondly, when we’ve said goodbye.”

– “Think of Me” from “The Phantom of the Opera”

After 35 years, the chandelier will fall for the last time on Broadway. And that’s a strange thing for an ‘80s kid to know.

There aren’t a lot of constants in American life, but “The Phantom of the Opera” has been one of them. As a teenage choir student, I obsessed over every note of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s mega-musical, and I had a LOT of company. It seemed to touch every aspect of our life.

Learning to drive? A cassette would magically appear in the passenger seat.

Practicing piano? The Phantom’s dramatically descending chords had to be included.

Singing along? You were … OK, probably out of luck unless you were a tenor or soprano, but it was still fun to try.

It came as no surprise to any of us when “Phantom” broke the record for longest-running Broadway musical and kept on going. By then, it had become more than a show: it was an institution, as much of a monument as the Empire State Building or Times Square.

But every show reaches its curtain. In February, the AP reported, Broadway’s “Phantom” will take its final bow. Far off in Britain, the original West End run will continue … for now. I type those last two words with hesitation, remembering that mega-musicals with mega-budgets aren’t a great fit for a pandemic world that doesn’t readily produce mega-audiences.

But as the light goes out on the Broadway run, I can’t help wondering – what held us all?

“Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in …”

– “Music of the Night” from “The Phantom of the Opera”

It’s fitting that the symbol of “Phantom” is a discarded mask. Because for all its spectacle and song, it’s a story of discovery.  

Some of the masks are internal:  characters having to discover who they really are and what they want, the basic impetus of any good story.

Some are dangerous, with the Phantom’s obsession disguising itself as love. That’s a mask we still have to watch out for in this day and age – the supposed lover, zealot or patriot who is willing to break what they “love” in order to keep it made in their own image.  

And some of that discovery means reaching backwards, facing the past clearly and deciding what it will be to us. Christine ultimately makes it a source of strength. The Phantom draws pain from it and makes it a weapon.

We still face all those choices and more besides.

“You’ll sing again, and to unending ovation!”

– “Prima Donna” from “The Phantom of the Opera”

In this day and age, of course, no show is every truly gone. We get soundtracks and videos and revivals and even movies (of variable quality). Those who want a taste of the experience can still find it, and without having to mortgage the house for tickets.

But in another way, it really is the end of an era. There’s a magic to live theater that nothing else really touches … the sense of the story coming to life for the first time between audience and performer, never quite the same. Broadway’s “Phantom” kept reinventing that story through the generations and the spotlight is a little cooler for its absence.

But the heart of the story still lives. The essential lessons will outlast any broken chandelier.

All we have to do is remove the mask and find them for ourselves.

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Something Missing

Every so often, a quest becomes the thing of legends.  

Like Frodo Baggins and his journey to destroy the One Ring.

Or Luke Skywalker racing to the aid of a princess he’s never met.

Or Scott Rochat … searching for holiday magazines at the grocery store?

Somehow I don’t think I’ll have John Williams composing music for this one any time soon.

By now, Heather’s used to this. Over 22 years of marriage, she knows that the holidays are a magical time for us both. We enjoy it all: the message, the music, the lights, even my annual battles to the death against easily-torn wrapping paper. (“So we meet again, my old foe …”)

She also knows that each year, there will be one detail that threatens to make me crazy.

Sometimes my obsessive quest produces something wonderful, like when I uncovered the exact edition of “The Story of Holly and Ivy” that  Heather used to love as a child, the one with the red-and-green Adrienne Adams illustrations. But most of the time, it just gets me fixated on one minor brushstroke of a bigger picture.

One year, it was the always-around-since-childhood chocolate coins that seemed to have sold out at every store.

Another time, it was a hunt for a pre-lit tree with colored lights. On that holiday season, of course, 99% of plastic pines for sale had lights that were whiter than a Bing Crosby Christmas.

Last year, it became the magazines.

There are certain things I always stuff Christmas stockings with, from the tasty to the ridiculous.  And the collection has always included three magazines each, tailored to each person’s interests. For instance, our ward Missy might get one title with beautiful dresses, one on classic cars, and one about Star Wars or Harry Potter. (Yeah, life with her gets pretty interesting.)

But last year, the magazines went away.

Stores reduced their sections or removed them entirely. Some titles went out of business, others moved online. And a happy holiday task that normally took 30 minutes tops somehow became a sprawling journey to every business in town that might sell a periodical. My internal dialogue got taken over by Gollum: “Must find the precious …”

Why? Because I had a picture in my head of what the season should be. And this minor detail was blowing it up.

No surprise there. We’re good at that. This year, I suspect we’ll all experience it in spades, as we run into used-to-bes that can’t be because of pandemic safety. Tradition is powerful at this time of year, and disrupting any tradition, from the tall to the small, is unsettling.

But then, at its heart, Christmas is unsettling.

That sounds strange, I know. We think of the season as one of peace. But peace means more than just calm and contentment. It’s a restoration, pushing people out of familiar paths and opening their eyes to something larger.

And in almost every tale of the time, from the sacred to the secular, it’s about a missing piece.

It might be Ebenezer Scrooge, discovering he needs to let the world into his heart. Or Charlie Brown finding a quiet truth amidst the seasonal noise. It might be the girl Ivy and the doll Holly searching for each other without knowing why, or terrified shepherds who suddenly see something new and real burn in the skies overhead.

It’s an awakening. Often an uncomfortable one. Breaking the routine usually is.

But from that awakening comes wholeness. Awareness. Growth.

Peace.

Take the risk. Be unsettled. Don’t just look, but see.

That’s how hearts open. It’s how we find each other again, and find ourselves in the process.

That’s a quest worth achieving.

With or without magazines in hand.

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Just Wild About Harry

“All right,” Heather told Missy, “hold still and don’t squirm, so I can draw this on you.”

With a big grin, Missy held still – barely. The excitement lit her face as, piece by piece, her transformation proceeded. The red and gold tie. The round glasses. The dark school robes with her House crest. And of course, the famous lightning scar on the forehead.

“Are you ready to go, Harry?” I asked.
“Yeah!”

Hogwarts Express, here we come! Or at least, an early Halloween party.

To anyone who knows our ward Missy, this should come as no surprise. After all, what she loves, she loves hard. That includes red purses filled to the breaking point, stereos turned to maximum volume, bowling on days that end in “Y,” … and always, always, anything that has to do with J.K. Rowling’s famous Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

The discovery, like many, grew out of our nighttime reading. Heather and I had fallen in love with the world of young wizards and witches long ago, and decided to try out the first book on Missy on a whim. Which was kind of like introducing Clark Kent to phone booths. Soon, we had consumed the whole series amongst rapt attention and shouted cheers, and a powerful devotion had begun.

They became the first books she ever asked me to re-read. And then re-re-read. Potter memorabilia became the birthday gift most likely to generate smiles, from Gryffindor socks to coloring books. And of course, for three of the last five Halloweens, she’s been the boy wizard himself, her dark hair, green eyes, and slight frame perfectly suited to the role.

I’m sure there are at least a few parents nodding as I write this. Twenty years after the books debuted in this country and more than 10 years after the movies wrapped, there’s still a powerful following – kids, adults, maybe even cocker spaniels for all I know. Why?

Some of it is the basic pull of an exciting story, of course. Missy gets amped up every time we hit a sky-high Quidditch match, or pull out the wands for another desperate battle with dark forces. Adrenaline is powerful, and it’s fun.

But it’s not always what lasts.

At heart, I think Rowling’s words have lasted because they HAVE heart.

They remember what it’s like to be an almost-adolescent, entering a world you don’t understand and figuring out where you belong in it.

They bring back how wonderful and how painful it can be to tie your heart to someone else, and how hard their loss can hit.

They rediscover the moments when you find your heroes have feet of clay, and that things you were certain about may not be as simple as they seemed.

And most of all, they bring home the simple truth that everyone matters. That everyone is worthy of love. That closing yourself off to that only tears you apart and works greater harm. And that you can always choose to make a difference for the better – not because you have to, but because you know it needs to be done.

That’s powerful stuff. Whatever your age.

And it’s a power the best stories have always had.

In a couple of weeks, the costume will be put away. The trick-or-treat candy will be eaten. But the magic will remain, ready to be conjured back at any moment.

And when it is, Missy will hold still – barely – as the spell works its charm one more time.