Saturday, January 14, 2017

The Music Collection from Phantom: The Immortal!

Read the Review First!

I'm sure you all realize by now that when a book includes music, I enjoy learning about the selections that have been mentioned and referred to as the story goes along. For instance, in Phantom: The Immortal, we follow the main character from the Phantom of the Opera moves forward in time when a new Christine is discovered. She is auditioning for a part in Faust...
The Phantom believes she is his
Christine and when this new Christine says, "I wish you'd spoken to me, Angel," Christine whispered. "I would dearly have loved to hear your instruction. I would have obeyed every command you gave to me," the Phantom begins almost immediately to train her...

My collection begins with the music that came to mind as the original book was presented in some way...Some selections were chosen by me for this part...

But in the darkness, without the distraction of her physical beauty, he was able to hear the sweet melody of every quavering sigh. It reminded him of the legato leitmotifs from Wagnerian operas. He was her Tristan and she was his Isolde. He quietly cursed himself for entertaining that thought. Despite their exquisite love, Tristan und Isolde was not a romance that ended joyously. And, although he knew this evening would not conclude with a happily-ever-after, he didn’t want reminding that their relationship was coming to a sorry conclusion.
Desperate for that release, and mortified by the knowledge that it would bring an end to their time together, he stole his pleasure from every second of their union. His shaft slipped slowly in and out. The fluid friction was the most delicious sensation he could imagine. Her heated sex drank noisily from him. The operatic music of their lovemaking quickly built to a crescendo. And then his pleasure exploded. Christine screamed into the blackness. Her muscles gripped him so tight he couldn’t breathe. His length pulsed and twitched in an agony of ecstasy. And every glorious sensation he had ever enjoyed was diminished by the magnificence of their shared climax. Sobbing, laughing and swooning, Christine called out his name as the consciousness trailed from her voice. 
This is why Monsieur Moncharmin, the new manager, is eager to have her name associated with L’Opera Garnier.” He spoke quickly, the gaiety of his natural falsetto trembling as though he didn’t like to impart such upsetting information. Nervously, he fumbled with the silk cravat around his throat. His painted nails shone pink in the faint rays that reached their box from the stage. “I’ve already measured her for her costumes,” he said sadly. “Her ensemble for the first two acts is sitting in her dressing room and has been tailored to perfection. La Diva Carla is this year’s soprano and she will be this season’s Marguerite.” Slumping heavily in his seat, the masked figure sighed.

But as soon as The Phantom saw Christine, he wanted her to play Marguerite...
“Christine. Follow me, Christine. Come this way, s’il vous plait.” He turned to see who was being addressed. Although more than a century had passed, his senses could not resist the siren call on hearing that single name. It was a popular appellation—not uncommon among the constant stream of dancers and chorus girls who ebbed and flowed through the opera’s passages—but too many times before, he had been disappointed to find himself staring at an unworthy recipient of that resplendent title. Expecting to be disillusioned once more, promising himself he would never again be lulled by that misplaced hope, he squinted into the shadows from where she approached. She stepped beneath the glow of a naked bulb. “Christine?” he whispered. As never before, time stood still.

“Christine? Is that you?” Even as he spoke, he realized he had said the words too quietly for her to hear. The assistant floor manager ushered her toward a battered door set in a bare brick wall. “Use this dressing room to freshen up, Christine. Onstage in five...
“Angel,” Christine whispered. “Are you there, Angel?” He recoiled from the mirror as though he had been struck. Instinctively, one hand went to cover his face. He didn’t know if he made the gesture to protect himself, or if the reaction was for the benefit of those with nervous dispositions who might see him unmasked. Whatever the reason, he knew the response was now an ingrained habit that he would never break.
“Sing for me,” he murmured. He wasn’t even aware that the words were being said aloud. Seeing her again, it was automatic to give the familiar command. He tempered the volume of his tone through a latent fear that she might actually hear him. But that apprehension wasn’t enough to stop him from repeating the instruction. “Sing for me, Christine.”
Holding his breath, he closed his eyes. He was momentarily unable to bear the pain of seeing her before him. He wanted to remain in the dark, away from the torturous thoughts of what could have been, free from the haunting image of his Christine returned. Common sense told him he ought to creep away now while he still remained undiscovered and unhurt. Acting on the impulse, he took the first tentative step toward the exit, ready to give up on this Christine as his original love had given up on him. And then she began to sing. “Faites-lui mes aveux…” He instantly recognized the opening line of Siebel’s confession. Clenching his teeth together, petrified he would inadvertently make some exclamation, he listened and knew in an instant: this was his Christine reborn. He had last seen Christine in this theater when she was singing Faust. Now, this identical beauty—calling for her Angel and regaling him with Siebel’s confession—could not be dismissed as mere coincidence. The belief that fate had conspired to give him a second chance made his heart race with hope and anticipation. Mesmerized, he stared out through the mirror and listened to the way she brought the aria to life.

Christine starts reading the letters...

She felt a pulsing between her thighs as she remembered the words on the aging parchment. By now, she could recite them by heart.   "My Angel of Music has placed lamps and candles everywhere, yet there is such terrible darkness in this place. Perhaps the darkness lies in his soul. How I wish I could banish it, for I know there is lightness in his heart. I see it when he looks at me. The eyes behind his mask spark and glisten like emeralds on fire, contrasting with the blackness of his hair. Sing for me, Christine! he cries. And I sing “Un bouquet… Ah! Je ris de me voir,” which by rights belongs to Marguerite. To La Carlotta.

And then it is the opening Christine's dressing room...

Closing her eyes, she concentrated, gearing up for the moment when she’d take the stage. The walls of her dressing room seemed to hum, vibrate. There was a power at work here, something otherworldly and she shivered, her flesh erupting with tiny bumps. She ran her fingers through her long hair, down the sides of her neck, over her nipples, her skin rippling with another course of gooseflesh. Although the room was heated, a cold draft was leaking in from somewhere. It smelled of damp leaves and a hint of something woodsy, sandalwood perhaps. She remained still, listening. Waiting. The sound of her excited breaths filled the room. Her aural capabilities sharpened as she imagined she could hear the long-ago sighs of the young woman who had once stood here, also waiting to go onstage as Siebel. “Christine…” Her eyelids flew open. Instinctively she reached up to cover her breasts as she whirled around to look behind her. There was no one in the room. There was no one but her near-naked image in the mirror. She turned back to offer her reflection a wan smile, as if admitting to it her silliness. Then she heard the voice again, barely a whisper. “Do you still love me, Christine?”

Seeing and hearing her audition for Faust, he agreed to work with her...under his strict conditions...

Obediently, she began an aria, displaying a marvelous tone and range. Giving herself completely to each role, assuming a different persona with every different aria, Christine stunned him with her talent. He watched in awe as she placed a hand against her breast while singing from La Traviata,

and he could easily have believed she was an ailing and lovelorn courtesan. Performing “Un bel dì vedremo” from Madame Butterfly, she impressed him as vulnerable, proud and passionate. Her fingers stole against her body as she sang. He suspected the movements were involuntary: a subconscious response to the emotions and tragedies of each song.

During her rendition of “Qual fiamma avea nel guardo!”—Nedda’s secret thoughts from I Pagliacci, Christine imbued her performance with the sultry vigor of a Gypsy siren. Her hips swayed, the movement subtle at first and then increasing to something urgent and powerful. Awed by her casual dance, he decided she would use the same motion during her lovemaking.
...The image left him weak and frustrated and he quickly changed the tempo and had her sing as Rigoletto’s Gilda.

Christine did everything he asked. She gave him a creditable Tosca, an impassioned Violetta Valéry, and a heart-rending Mimi. He only stopped her lesson because he was uneasy with the thought that each of the characters she sang was made famous for their tragic deaths. A prickle of gooseflesh covered the backs of his hands. In the dim light that filtered through to his hidden corridor, he could make out the eyeless stare of the death’s-head ring that adorned the little finger of his right hand. He was struck by the realization that fate had a nasty way of forewarning its intentions. The thought left him ill with worry...

“You are now Marguerite,” he told her. 
Not allowing her the chance to argue, plucking out the theme for “Il se fait tard! Adieu!” he brought the violin to life and sang Faust’s introduction to the duet. It had been a while since he last performed an aria and he was pleased with the intonation he brought to the piece. It helped that he was able to sing of his love for Christine because that allowed him to invest honest emotion into the piece...

The Phantome sees Rezso in Christine's dressing room and is enraged

The man’s name and title were as Hungarian as every rhapsody ever written by Liszt. His oily charm and guttural accent described him as being as Hungarian as goulash. A sneer of contempt brushed his upper lip and he could feel the maddening itch begin anew in the damaged flesh of his face. Christine in the arms of another man was an unbearable sight. But, because she was in the arms of a Hungarian—a nationality he had good reason to despise—he didn’t trust himself to contain his temper...

The love duet between Marguerite and Faust. She’d sung it for him in her dressing room and had made a fair enough job of it. Now she wanted only to sleep. Her mind couldn’t conjure up the melody, the lyric. Nevertheless, she opened her mouth, hoping what came out would please him. It did not. “No! Start again!” Christine reeled her mind backward like a spool of film, trying to pick up the thread...

“Christine!” he called impatiently from the drawing room. She hurried out to take her place before him, awaiting her cue. “I wish for you to sing ‘Un bouquet… Ah! Je ris de me voir,’” he demanded. The features on the exposed portion of his face looked strained. He had been acting differently ever since she’d first mentioned Rezso’s name.

The final act. “Walpurgis Night.” Christine was now onstage with the chorus, all of whom were costumed as witches. The irony that they all had to wear masks didn’t escape her as her eyes swept through the audience again and again, trying to locate a white domino. She felt relief that the performance would soon be over. All she wanted was to go home to her little apartment, pull the bed covers over her head, and sleep a dreamless sleep. She didn’t want to be haunted by men in masks or blue-eyed foreigners with protestations of love.

This was the last music from Faust, the Original

This was the last music from The Original Phantom of the Opera...

How Did the Phantom: The Immortal 

A Major Reason 
I did this is to show the outstanding sequel
as presented in the book,
Phantom: The Immortal.
This book may be erotically presented,
but, in my opinion, it stands ready and able
to be the official sequel to
The Phantom of the Opera!
With or without the total erotic presentations...

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