![]() Leroux’s work covers a vast array of hyper characters, all of whom are overacted and yet underwhelming. Andrew Lloyd Webber may have made the music of the night resound with passion and poignancy, a dark sensuality covering years of insanity inducing loneliness, but the actual written story is woven from a far cheaper fabric. This was unfortunately my exact experience with Phantom of the Opera. ![]() Have you ever had a book that has just sat on your shelf forever? A book that you lovingly run your hands over as you walk by, anticipating the future greatness – the sheer perfection of finally sitting down to read it? Have you ever, actually, bought progressively better versions of this book because you just knew you are going to love it? And then finally, finally, that perfect day comes when the sun is shining, the birds tweeting, the coffee perking, and you sit down with that near-legendary book, years of longing coalescing into the perfect moment, only to discover that the story is, in fact, an utter letdown.
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