Many horror fans cite the unmasking
sequence in Lon Chaney's The Phantom of the
Opera as one of the most horrifying scenes in film history.
Robert Bloch, whose writing of Psycho
alone qualifies him as an expert on the subject of chills, claimed that this
scene profoundly unsettled him, and David J. Skal (in The
Monster Show) described the sudden revealing of the Phantom's twisted visage as a
full-frontal assault on the audience tantamount to an act of rape.
Chaney's
consummate artistry with make-up partly explains such strong viewer responses.
Lacking the foam latex appliances and other sophisticated props of today's
special effects departments, he managed to fashion a face possessing a maximum
potential for terror, and his performance exploited this to the fullest. But
even though his Phantom's sunken eyes, distorted nose, jutting cheek-bones and
deathly white pallor convey a disturbing skull-like gruesomeness, these features
alone fail to completely account for the soul-wrenching reaction felt by viewers
when the mask concealing them comes off.
After all, horror films depict an
infinity of fearful faces and every fan becomes aware of how an initially
terrifying countenance loses its impact after repeated viewings. Jack Pierce's
Frankenstein monster, which once caused people to faint in the aisles, now looks
positively benign, and the other Universal monsters seem as familiar as
relatives at a family reunion. (Well, maybe at my family reunion...) But innumerable
showings of The Phantom of the Opera
still fail to dampen the shock waves that thunder through an audience when Mary
Philbin pulls the Phantom's mask away and the awful, naked face of Erik bursts
forth like a psychic thermonuclear explosion.
To understand how Chaney's unmasking
sequence manages to retain its force while other scary monster scenes slip into
banality, we have to look beyond the grease-paint and mortician's wax into the
very soul of the Phantom himself. His motivations and emotions, projected so
masterfully in Chaney's sensitive performance, elicit a sympathetic response.
The loneliness of the Phantom's existence in the dark cellars and secret
passages of the opera house, from where he longingly gazes at the beautiful
people as they enact their lyrical romances on the stage, strikes a deep chord
in viewers. We identify with his yearning to share the tortuous corridors of a
hidden, personal world with another human being.
When the Phantom succeeds in wooing
Christine through the looking glass into his private wonderland, we relive a
familiar and sometimes painful memory: our first date. Undoubtedly, this is
Erik's initial attempt at establishing a significant relationship, and the air
itself seems to tingle with a vital anticipation, part hope and part dread, that
we've all felt when taking our first awkward steps toward love. While Chaney's
malformed Romeo ferries Christine across the canals of his underground Venice,
one can sense the tension rise. Everything must go perfectly during this first
amorous venture! Such a thin line separates success from failure, and as the
Phantom walks the razor's edge between ecstasy and heartache we tremble with him
on the edge of the abyss.
Things go well at first, and the
precarious web of romantic artifice woven by Erik seems to ensnare Christine.
The lady spends the night, and the Phantom's confidence soars. Don Juan is
feeling triumphant indeed, and he gives voice to his joy by playing the pipe
organ. We, too, have heard this music and felt the happiness that inspires it.
And at this dizzying peak of elation, which the audience shares completely with
the Phantom, disaster strikes! Reality rends the delicate veil of illusion as
Christine unmasks Erik and all his beautiful fantasies of love come tumbling
down.
Too much disclosure! The worst possible
catastrophe that could befall a self-conscious person on his first date! We all
understand what it's like to be embarrassed, humiliated, sick with shame. We all
know what it would feel like to have our greatest flaw exposed to the gaze of
the person whose acceptance we most desperately desire. These are the terrible
emotions etched across the Phantom's face when the mask comes off, and this
explains why his features stun us with such lasting effect. We suddenly behold
the horrifying face of a misshapen man who also appears to be violently
horrified himself.
Poor Erik! Look closely at his
expression the next time you watch the unmasking scene in
The Phantom of the Opera. It isn't
anger, hate or menace which distorts his features in that split-second when the
mask first disappears. Overwhelming horror alone animates those widened eyes and
gaping mouth; the stark, utter horror of a person who realizes that his most
cherished dream is destroyed forever. We see the face of a man to whom a
calamity has just occurred, and, because of a very primal instinct, we
viscerally experience the same dreadful emotions that he feels.
Chaney's skill extended far beyond the
realm of make-up into the domain of pantomime. Raised by deaf-mute parents, he
early learned to wordlessly communicate inner sentiments with an uncanny
clarity. He understood human nature very well, and realized that people
instinctively respond to the look of fear. Chaney knew that he could alarm
people simply by looking scared himself due to the same innate factors that
cause a herd of deer to panic whenever a single buck raises his white tail in
response to danger. When Erik's mask came off he didn't just strive to appear
frightening. Chaney also managed to look convulsed by gut-wrenching emotions
himself, and this does more to jolt the audience than any amount of grotesque
grimacing intended to overtly terrify. It brings the process of viewer
identification to a devastating crescendo in which we and the Phantom unite
through a bond of shared emotion, and closes the circuit between audience and
actor in a way that reverberates with intensifying waves of raw feeling. Seeing
the Phantom's uncovered face horrifies us because he is so horrified by being
seen.
Chaney's handling of Erik's character
skillfully prepares us for this moment by progressively building on our
sympathies. We become the Phantom as we share his loneliness, his desire for
companionship, his nervous anticipation while leading Christine into the
underworld, and his joy at her temporary submission to his advances. Thus, when
she rips his mask off and shows her revulsion, we scream
with Erik as much as we scream
at him. We know how he feels because we
ourselves have experienced dashed hopes, burning shame, and painful rejection.
This ultimately explains how the unmasking sequence in The
Phantom of the Opera retains its ability to shock even
after seventy-six years of constant reviewing. Chaney's portrayal remains
unsurpassed because he makes the face behind the Phantom's mask become our own.
--William Max Miller
Copyright 1998 by W.M.Miller
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