Review of Phantom of the Paradise (1974) by Stuart P — 17 Nov 2008

This movie poses a classic question:

Just who the hell is Paul Williams?

I mean, I've seen him chillin' with Muppets. I've watched him bet against Burt Reynolds. I've even witnessed him portray a southern ape in the future, and if that isn't an acting feat, I don't know what is.

And now, now I understand that he is the voice of the Penguin in the Batman cartoons.

In this instance, for PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE, not only is he the Dorian Grey-esque star of the piece, but he wrote and performed the music and has a very disturbing collection of soft-core porn scenes.

But who, exactly, is Paul Williams?

Evidently, Paul Williams is Somebody. And not like the somebody you know that can always find you a job or a quarter-bag, but Somebody. In the same sense that Gavin MacCloud is a Somebody. Not quite the calibur of Somebody as, say, David Hasselhoff, but more of a reserved stature, like, say, a diminutive Dirk Benedict that sings and plays piano.

In any case, this movie is one helluva Paul Williams vehicle.

And what a glammed out vehicle it is!

Basically Brian DePalma decided to slam Phantom of the Opera, Glam Rock and Paul Williams together into a virtual hodge-podge of 1970's Hot Damn! This movie rocks. Literally. Enough so that I forgot about my Paul Williams handicap and enjoyed the living hell out of it for the entire 92 minutes.

Okay, so Paul Williams (known as Swan) is, like, the hottest poop in the world and he's opening a club called The Paradise. Ya dig? But he needs a good opening number. Enter the horribly lanky William Finley as Winslow, who slaps a piano, sings about dreams and friends and dreams of friends. For love interest, Winslow bumps into the notoriously folksy Jessica Harper as Phoenix and lavishes her with bulging eye affection. Swan decides to steal Winslow's music, and Winslow is a blithering idiot about that fact until he ends up in jail with his teeth ripped out and replaced by licorice Good-n-Plentys. Then, after a miraculous cut-scene escape, he ends up placing his head in a record press, becoming the first Hollywood Disfigured Monster to actual look a little better after his disfigurement. A tight, vinyl outfit and bitchin' bird mask later and we have the title character.

I'm not gonna get into the Phantom's sound system, I'm not gonna get into the opening of the Paradise, and I'm not going to get into the glorious fifteen minutes of screen time devoted to the rock god, Beef. I'll leave that up to you. You need to get up off yo pa-tootie, get a job, get a Netflix account and get it delivered to your door in thirty minutes or less. And you better not disappoint me.

Or Paul Williams.

Whoever the hell he is.