Phantom of the Opera (1925)

I have a question – what is this thing on my head? (still from

The Bay Area’s economy may suck, but it can still be an amazing place to be if you love films (and can afford the occasional pricey event). 2015 was my first year back, after an absence of about 15 years—really, I find it’s best not to count any more. What I’m trying to tell you is that on Halloween, I had the privilege not only of watching Lon Chaney’s Phantom of the Opera, but of watching it in Grace Cathedral Church, with live organ accompaniment.

The Cathedral is an attraction in itself, and it’s hard to imagine a more appropriate place to see the 90-year-old gothic classic. It was heartening to see both showings had sold out.

The film has a complicated history, including a frosty reception upon its first (and second release). But even if the film weren’t importantly historically, with one of the first moments of moving technicolor (rather than hand-tinted film), it allows us to watch Chaney in all his sympathetic, oddball glory.

Grace Cathedral, photo by Michael Caven

Grace Cathedral, photo by Michael Caven. The screen was all the way at the back.

Phantom might have been the greatest vehicle for him, even if it’s not his best movie. It is, of course, an opportunity to shock us with the makeup he designed for the deformed Phantom. But, like a Ginsu-knife commercial, we also get so much more. Best of all is Chaney’s interpretation of the deranged villain.

Like all great villains, the Phantom has a well-honed sense of theatricality. However deranged he may be, the Phantom, like Chaney, is a sly master of spectacle. He doesn’t just live underneath an Opera House—he is constantly performing. It’s an understandable obsession for someone who is so ugly he has to hide from society. And he’s certainly better at it than poor Christine Daaé (Mary Philbin), the hopelessly uninteresting Faust understudy whom he tutors. But Chaney’s Phantom is like Ridley Scott’s alien (admittedly, with less drool), we catch only hints, glimpses of the menace—the swish of a cape here, a gloved hand there, a shadow—until the big reveal.

umasking 1925Hollywood lore tells us that Mary Philbin (playing Christine Daaé) didn’t see Chaney in full Phantom glory until they were filming the reveal scene, the better to terrify her on camera. Rumor has it that patrons at the film’s premiere fainted when Christine tears off the Phantom’s mask. Chaney famously did his own makeup here, as elsewhere, and, Hollywood gossip aside, it is both grotesque and astounding. Early in the film, theater worker Buquet, cradling a prop head because why not, describes the Phantom to a rapt audience of skittish Opera ballerinas. His eyes are “ghastly beads in which there is no light.” His skin is a “leprous parchment—yellow skin stretched over protruding bones.” And no nose. Chaney wore a “contoured wire appliance to flare and pull back his nose,” a “contraption which would sometimes cause Chaney to ‘bleed like hell,’” according to cameraman Charles Van Enger (The Monster Show, David J. Skal)—and which made his face look uncannily like a skull.

pointy phantom

The Uncle Sam poster came first, in case you were wondering.

What’s so unexpectedly delightful about this Phantom is his demented glee at his own flourishes. When the Opera managers don’t let Christine play the part of Marguerite as the Phantom has instructed them to do, he sends them a note: “Behold, she [the other Marguerite] is singing to bring down the chandelier!” And then, of course, the chandelier comes crashing down on the audience. (Which, oddly, doesn’t seem to hurt their box office, if later crowds are any indication.) You can practically hear him cackling. When the Phantom presents Christine with the ultimatum to marry him or he will kill her lover, Raoul of the fabulous moustaches, he wags his finger at her, as though she’s being mischievous.

pointy phantom 2

This is what demented glee looks like.

The Phantom has the lyrical pomposity of the best villains, rearranging his syntax for effect: No longer like a toad in these foul cellars will I secrete the venom of hatred, for you shall bring me love. So romantic.

Arguably the best performance the Phantom gives is at the very, very end of the film, when an enraged mob chases him to the Seine. I won’t tell you what he does, but I like to think that Chaney came up with this last bit of Phantom magic himself.

And, as if that high-class, yet goofy, villainy weren’t enough, the Phantom lives in the bowels of an Opera House, surrounded by an underground lake. And his lair, five cellars below the stage, puts the Opera’s set decorators to shame. All the Opera House gets is a narrow trap door and that really, really big chandelier—which doesn’t even make it through the film. Meanwhile, the Phantom’s man cave boasts an advance alarm system to detect unwelcome visitors, a coffin for his bed and a one-person boat-bed for the woman he loves, an organ, a trapdoor, a secret exit, a torture chamber with its own trapdoor, and a grasshopper figure rigged to a cellar-full of explosives. All the cool kids have one of those.

Not to be missed is the elaborate torture—not of the hapless Christine, no, of her dashing mustache, I mean, boyfriend, and a detective. The two men are nearly roasted to death, a scene during which at least one of them disrobes more than you’d expect, and then nearly drowned. And then everybody is nearly blown up.

The Bal Masque scene is the only surviving sequence using the early Technicolor system. It’s fantastic, as you can see here:

bal masque phantom

But this is only the prelude to what’s probably my favorite image of the film, the Phantom spying on Christine and Mr. Moustaches on the rooftop of the Opera. The cellar-dwelling villain—a red stain on the now black and white scene—balances on a statue above the lovers, and above Paris. And while the two straight arrows simper at each other, the Phantom curses Christine’s betrayal, his red cape billowing out as though it were part of the statuary.

Just one more tidbit. Why, you ask, are the two men on this lobby card (a detective and the mustachioed boyfriend), holding their arms aloft as if they’re in math class and they have to pee?lobby card arms

Well, let me first assure you that it is a matter of life and death. Really. The detective said so. Apparently, the Phantom has become known for silently lowering a noose around the necks of any persons so foolish as to go snooping in the cellars. Clearly, holding your arm up is the way to fend off an unwanted noose. Good tip.

It used to be that you could only see iffy prints of The Phantom paired with some truly godawful music—sometimes it’s not even pretending to be a score; it’s just the same piece of music being played over and over and over again, in absolutely no relation whatsoever to what’s happening on the screen. Thankfully, that’s no longer the case. Kino has a recently digitally-restored Blu-ray version, as does Image Entertainment. The Image DVD has the Alloy Orchestra’s score and Gabriel Thibaudeau’s. (It also has the 1925 version of the film and two 1929 reissues.)

If you have never seen a silent film on a screen with live accompaniment, you’ve almost certainly not read this far, but if you’re still with me and you haven’t, do yourself a favor and find one you can get to. Lots of places (museums, summer festivals) now screen silents with live accompaniment around holidays or as special events. It will change the way you see silent film. (Sorta like reading Jane Austen or Laurence Sterne—or Shakespeare—and realizing that musty old literature isn’t musty at all and people were wickedly funny all the way back then, and still worth reading now, whenever now happens to be.)

phantom at the organ

Lon Chaney–bendier than you realized.

The Great Villain Blogathon: Peter Lorre’s Dr. Gogol in Mad Love (1935)


Like most movie watchers of my generation, I probably first saw the actual Peter Lorre in Casablanca (1942). He doesn’t have a lot of screen time, but he’s hard to forget. My first exposure to Peter Lorre, however, and perhaps also like a lot of folks my generation, was through the glory of Looney Tunes.


So when I saw him in Casablanca, and then in The Maltese Falcon (1941) and M (1931), I might already have understood what a big deal he was. But I couldn’t have understood how amazing Peter Lorre is, because I hadn’t yet seen the glorious Mad Love (1935).

As a villain, Peter Lorre’s Dr. Gogol might be a distant relative of Udo Kier’s Baron Frankenstein. On his best day, Dr. Gogol has at least one foot in la-la land. Far more refined than the putatively aristocratic Baron, he’s got Lorre’s soft, soothing voice and self-effacing manner. Gogol is, however, equally likely to slip into hysterics at the drop of a hat. He is, after all, an unhinged doctor, also a surgeon, like Baron Frankenstein. Very much unlike the Baron, we see Dr. Gogol using his surgical gifts for good, helping crippled children walk and so forth. Mad Love is so effective as a horror film in large part because Lorre somehow endows Dr. Gogol with a glimmer of humanity, and we empathize with it. It’s an amazing trick—more difficult, I think, than what he does as the murderer in M, simply because we know Gogol so much better. We hear him talk to others, and to himself; we see him do good, and we see him luxuriate in the suffering of others.

mad_love_poster_04Mad Love is a delirious adaptation of a French novel, Les Mains d’Orlac, by Maurice Renard, a story that has been adapted no fewer than eight times (though the English translation is now out of print). The first was in 1924, a silent film starring Conrad Veidt and directed by Robert Weine—which is not a bad way to start a second life in celluloid. Here in 1935, it’s astonishing how much plot director Karl Freund has been packed into a mere 68 minutes (though I’ve no idea what’s from the novel and what might not be).

When we meet Dr. Gogol, he’s attending a performance at the Théâtre des Horreurs, a popular Grand Guignol-type entertainment starring his favorite actress/torture victim, Yvonne Orlac (Frances Drake). The camera takes us through the entrance, past the goblin selling tickets and the headless hatcheck girl. Yvonne plays a Duchess who is tortured on stage by her husband as an adulteress. Gogol attends this performance every night, and when Yvonne begins to scream as she’s being stretched on wheel, he closes his eyes in rapture. Ick. (Below the box he sits in every night is a nurse, as there was usually a nurse in attendance at such theaters, the better to create the illusion of unendurable horrors.)

grand-guignol-1In a sense, we never leave the Théâtre; the plot of the film is more bizarre and morbid, if not quite as gory, as anything that might have graced the Théâtre’s stage.

In quick succession the following happens:

Yvonne quits the stage to be with her successful pianist husband, Stephen Orlac (the twitchy Colin Clive). Gogol is devastated, and to compensate, he buys the wax figure of Yvonne that has been gracing the entrance of the Théâtre des Horrors. A murdering American knife-thrower from the circus is guillotined (Edward Brophy), witnessed by Gogol and a scandal-mongering American journalist (Ted Healy). Traveling to meet her, Yvonne’s husband, Stephen, is in a terrible train wreck in which his hands are crushed. And that’s the set-up.

After Yvonne’s final performance, she is fêted by the company, complete with a going-away-wedding cake.


“The théatre loses another head.” How romantic.

Now, things get weird.

Stephen’s destroyed hands will have to be amputated. In a panic, Yvonne takes her husband to Dr. Gogol, in the hopes that the famous doctor will be able to find a way Stephen can keep his hands. Desperate to please her, Gogol agrees to take a look. He comes to the same unpleasant pro-amputation conclusion. But while washing up before the operation, he has a flash of inspiration, if by “inspiration” one can mean a man’s reflection audibly urging him to acquire a handy corpse and replace a pianist’s crushed hands with the hands a guillotined knife-thrower no longer needs. Gogol follows this sage advice, assuring the reassembled Stephen that his new hands are truly his own.


Really, what could go wrong?

The American newspaperman gets wind that Gogol has taken the beheaded corpse, and when he swings by Gogol’s house to find out what the good doctor might be doing with it, he meets Françoise, Gogol’s perpetually drunk housekeeper. Who has a cockatiel on her shoulder, because why wouldn’t she? Françoise (May Beatty) assumes the newspaperman is asking about the wax figure of Yvonne, and she regales him with tales of grooming “it,” and of Gogol playing music to it every night. You know, on his chamber organ. But Gogol comes home and prevents the newspaperman from seeing any corpses with his own eyes.

I suspect that, in the novel, as in other adaptations of the original story, the main character is Stephen, the hands-less piano player. Here, it is the mad Gogol, and it’s an excellent choice. Clive is always effective as a gifted man losing his marbles, but Lorre is the main attraction, and his super-creepy obsession with Yvonne is certainly the stuff of horror movies. In fact, his super-creepy obsession has a long and proud literary heritage, to which the movie does a fine job of alluding.

As Stephen and Lorre mirror each other in their mad spiral, Gogol, a well-educated and cultured fellow, after all, takes to quoting poetry to articulate his feelings about Yvonne. He has, from the beginning, thought of the wax figure as Galatea and himself Pygmalion. Gogol recites some of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese, which narrate her courtship with the poet Robert Browning.

Straightaway I was ‘ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,–

Guess now who holds thee?Death, I said, But, there,

The silver answer rang,–Not Death, but Love. (I.9-14)

The face of all the world is changed, I think,

Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul

Move still, oh, still, beside me…  (VII.1 – 3)


When the real Yvonne is locked in Gogol’s study by Françoise, Yvonne pretends to be his Galatea. When Gogol realizes she has “come to life,” she faints in his arms. He knows she will never accept him. What else to do but reply to Barrett Browning’s hopeful sonnets with the words of one of Browning’s madmen?

                                      …I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
       In one long yellow string I wound
       Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
       I am quite sure she felt no pain.
                            (from “Porphyria’s Lover”)


Both verses mention hair and Yvonne’s has been called to our attention repeatedly throughout the film. When we first see her, the long, wavy black hair has been brushed out to the point of frizziness.



The movie is full of mirrors (with and without talking ids) and the plot itself is wonderfully symmetrical, opening with Yvonne’s stage performance at the Théatre and closing with her performance in Gogol’s study. In each she is persecuted by a man who claims to love her, wearing strikingly similar gowns/robes. During her first performance, Stephen is performing a concert of his own—his music plays over the radio during Yvonne’s first encounter with Gogol, backstage. During her last performance, Stephen comes to the rescue with a new performance courtesy of his new hands.

There is a simply fantastic moment at the beginning of the movie when Gogol is in the lobby of the Théatre, mooning at the statue of Yvonne, and a similarly dressed inebriate reels out of the auditorium as though from a mirror reflecting Gogol. The fellow drunkenly professes his love for the wax effigy.

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The staging in this scene is also wonderful. As the drunk begins to speak to the statue, Gogol turns away, so we can focus on what the second man is saying. As the declaration of love continues, Gogol turns slightly, drawing our attention back to him, and his distress at what the drunk is saying. There are a few “reaction” shots of the statue—and when it’s in close up, it’s not an “it” at all, but the actress, Frances Drake, standing in for the statue, prefiguring the end of the film, when the character will do so.

Lorre was never even nominated for an Oscar, which strikes me as scandalous. If TCM has ever devoted a Summer under the Stars day to Peter Lorre, I’ve missed it. If they haven’t, it’s long overdue.



The film is the last of nineteen that famed cinematographer Karl Freund directed. Like Lorre, Freund was an Austro-Hungarian ex-pat with a background in Expressionist film (and the film has some great shadows and dark staircases). Freund did ground-breaking work on F.W. Murnau’s The Last Laugh (1924), and was also the director of photography on Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927), and later, Dracula (1931).

Mad Love also features Keye Luke, a Chinese-born American artist-turned-actor, as Dr. Wong, Gogol’s much more sensible colleague. Luke played Charlie Chan’s Number-One Son, Kato, the klukeGreen Hornet’s side-kick, Master Po in “Kung Fu,” and was in Gremlins (1984) and Woody Allen’s 1990 Alice. He amassed a ludicrous 211 credits, with a guest spot on what appears to have been every television show in production during his career. “The Ray Milland Show”? Check. “Gunsmoke”? Check. “Mike Hammer,” “General Hospital” and “Perry Mason”? Check, check, and check. “Jonny Quest,” “The Andy Griffith Show,” “Star Trek,” “Hawaii-Five-O,” and on and on through “M*A*S*H,” “Remington Steele,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “The A-Team,” “T. J. Hooker,” “The Golden Girls,” and “MacGyver.” Sheesh. No Emmy, but he did get a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame the year before he died. Luke and Lorre co-starred again in Mr. Moto’s Gamble (1938).


**This post was originally intended to be part of a blogathon that took place in—holy cow—April. I didn’t realize it had been that long. Anyway, life intervened and I changed jobs and we moved and everything all went screwy for a couple of months. Things are settling down, so here we are again.

Cinemascope! Blogathon: House of Bamboo (1955)


10 Reasons You Should Drop What You’re Doing and Watch Samuel Fuller’s House of Bamboo Right Now

1) Samuel Fuller. Samuel Fuller did not mess around. His films are usually described as “in-your-face,” “pulpy,” and “crude.” They are, and they are magnificent. Fuller made films about things that mattered to him, and you can tell. He said films should start with a punch, and at least one of his films, The Naked Kiss (1964), does exactly that. Not a fan of establishing shots (meant to help orient the viewer in a new scene or space), Fuller was a natural editor. He wanted every shot, every move, every word, to count. Fuller would never sacrifice the raw emotion or the heart of a story just to make a point. But a few jagged edges on the plot were just fine.

House of Bamboo, like other films of Fuller’s, has an integrated cast, though there aren’t a lot of Japanese characters. (Four years later, in The Crimson Kimono, there are two interracial relationships.) Because this is a studio picture, its politics are pretty submerged, but the more control he had over his films, the more apparent Fuller’s politics were, as well as his proclivities. The hero of his film might be a prostitute, as in The Naked Kiss, or a pickpocket, as in the awesome Pickup on South Street (1953); the setting might be a mental hospital, as in Shock Corridor (1963), or the Korean War, in The Steel Helmet (1951), in which Americans execute a prisoner of war, royally pissing off the real U.S. Army. Fuller insisted he’d seen it happen during his service in World War II.


Of course, he also took to starting shooting by firing a pistol, and he dribbled cigar ash everywhere. Nobody’s perfect.

Here’s some classic Fuller from the shooting of House of Bamboo: “To make matters even messier, Fuller shot [Robert] Stack hoofing it around the pachinko parlors of Tokyo without letting the local citizenry know that a movie was being filmed. When Fuller commanded Stack to be attacked by an angry mob, he didn’t bother to let his unpaid extras know that Stack was acting… and the mob nearly killed the actor right there in front of the hidden cameras. Stack was none too thrilled by the turn of events but Fuller was in his glory.” (From Richard Harlan Smith’s post on TCM’s Movie Morlocks blog)

Twentieth-century Fox wanted a heterosexual relationship and a happy ending in House of Bamboo, and they got that. Sort of. Fuller made some compromises in for the studio; the relationship between Robert Stack’s character, Eddie, and his “kimono girl,” Mariko (Shirley Yamaguchi) is one of the bigger ones. But only a fool would think that the film is about Eddie and Mariko. It’s about Eddie and the crime boss he betrays, Sandy, played by the incomparable and underrated Robert Ryan. Which brings me to…


2) Robert Ryan. You probably don’t spend as much time as I do thinking about how amazing Robert Ryan is, but you might, if you watched this movie. One of Ryan’s specialities is a barely suppressed rage that’s constantly in danger of erupting into violence. Depending on the character, carrying around this rage can seem to wear him down or give him the volatility of a downed power line. He isn’t especially violent in this picture, but with Ryan it’s those moments when you’re afraid he’s about to crack someone in the face with, say, the cue ball he’s been holding that stay with you. Fuller knows how to milk those moments.

Ryan played a lot of bad guys, but he seems to have played racist bad guys more often than most actors, especially in the 1940s – 50s. Just off the top of my head, he’s an anti-Semite in Edward Dmytryk’s Crossfire (1947, which got him an Oscar nomination), and a bigot in Bad Day at Black Rock (1955) and Odds Against Tomorrow (1959). Perhaps he was so good at these and other bullying roles because, in real life, he campaigned for civil rights and opposed McCarthyism. He knew injustice and cruelty when he saw it. Plus, he was 6′ 4″. I can almost guarantee you that there’s not enough Robert Ryan in your life. You should do something about that.

BEWAREMYLOVELY_00413801_1610x1204_061520071328bfi-00n-a0nAct of Violence (1948






3) It’s in Cinemascope. Oh, the glories of Cinemascope. No, it wasn’t perfect, but it remains breathtaking, even when you notice that little curvature at the edge of the frame’s width, even when you have to watch it on a television screen. Cinemascope films, with an aspect ratio of 2.55:1 (versus the old Academy ratio of 1.375:1) were meant to be shown (ideally) on 62-foot long by 32-foot high screens, give or take. The limitations of filming in Cinemascope, like those of silent film, the Production Code, and early sound technology, either defeat a picture or produce inspired solutions. Fuller took it as part of his job to push against limits of all kinds, and the results are invariably dynamic. This film in particular is incredibly visually satisfying. Fuller uses the screens common to traditional Japanese interiors to frame characters and to create staggered or layered depth of field (a screen opening on a room beyond the one, or in front of the one, which has our attention, for example).





Notice, too, how a number of these shots have a sharp corner in the center of the foreground, rather than narrowing towards a point in the distance: the corners of buildings, offices, rooms. It’s an unusual (at least to me) way of creating depth in Cinemascope.

4) It was filmed on location in postwar Japan.


Tokyo is dreary and smog-filled. The empty trees suggest that Fuller made a point of filming in late fall or winter—even the natural landscapes are brown and grey. And yet, the film is filled with color—in particular the colors of traditional Japanese culture. Though the Western protagonists seem to take a chauvinistic pride in refusing to even acknowledge that they are in someone else’s country, the audience cannot help but get a feel for this time and this place. Fuller makes sure that the sights, sounds, and customs that the men ignore are there for us to take in. One of Fuller’s interests in this film, as in some of his others, is the clash of cultures, and the gang’s pointed lack of interest in their surroundings is their own bigotry, not the film’s. A motif is one of these guys shouting into a phone, or at a person, “English! ENGLISH!”



5) Fuller’s shot composition and staging

No, silly. This is the *beginning* of the movie.

No, silly. This is the *beginning* of the movie.



Three pivotal scenes take place in this gazebo and in each the characters are framed differently, emphasizing their state of mind.


6) The ass-kicking ending. SPOILERS AHEAD. Obviously.

I mean the real ending, not the silly tacked-on one with Eddie and Mariko holding hands. The final sequence is bizarre and brilliant from the moment Sandy sets up his revenge, getting Eddie shot by the Tokyo police, to the end, a Hitchcockian chase through the rooftop amusement park of the department store they were robbing. The highest point on the roof is a rotating globe, and that’s where Sandy goes down.



7) Bones!


Dammit, Jim! I’m a doctor not an ex-pat hood in postwar Japan!

8) Love triangles and gender reversals. Robert Stack in the tub, Robert Stack showing some shoulder. Meanwhile Shirley Yamaguchi is completely covered. (There is one obligatory shot of her in a skimpy towel, but that’s before the two of them get to know each other.)



A lot of the shot compositions also emphasize Sandy’s feelings for his “ichiban” (number one), first Griff (Cameron Mitchell), then, of course, Eddie. There’s at least one major plot point that doesn’t make much sense unless you understand that Sandy has developed feelings for Eddie. Fuller made it clear in interviews that he fully intended this homoerotic tension. Apparently, the only other person on the set who figured it out was Ryan, and there are a couple of scenes where he plays to this, and Stack/Eddie just looks blank, totally unaware of how important he has become to Sandy.

9) Kabuki. As James Ursini and Alain Silver point out in their DVD commentary, Fuller borrows a fair amount from Kabuki theatre in his staging and in the way he creates depth using the interior screens.

Yes, this is from the same movie.

Yes, this is from the same movie.

There’s also a Japanese party with traditional music and fan dancers that morphs into a sock hop. The women disrobe to reveal poodle skirts and bobby socks but keep their white pancake make up on. Because Fuller.

… aaaaaaaand this:

10) Having a heart-to-heart with guy you just shot. Dead. In his bathtub.


Fuller’s pulp rendering of Marat’s assassination, the scene in which Sandy shoots first and talks later, is gripping, both for its total weirdness and for how it elaborates on Sandy’s feelings about the two men in his life, Griff and Eddie. Sandy cradles the dead guy’s head, keeps it from sinking into the water twice, as he tenderly explains why he had to kill him. It’s a speech that applies equally well, if not more so, to other relationships in the film: You weren’t responsible for your actions. You didn’t know what you were doing. I could see you had no control of yourself. Absolutely none.

P.S. The great Japanese actor Sessue Hayakawa is also here, but you’d hardly know it. He looks uncomfortable and has a thanklessly dull part.

This is a movie that should be a lot easier to see, and, hey, Fox, it should be available in Blu-ray. Get on that, willya?