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When pretty boy sex symbols can buy lead
roles which they have no business playing, when actors can play characters whom they could
never identify with, when a good story is made into a joke to be taken seriously only by
hormone-driven teenyboppers, when the quality of music is sacrificed to give a rich guy
the delusion that he's doing a good job, when acting skills, musical talent, and common
sense are scattered to the winds in the name of Greed, when all this is done by someone as
respected as Lord Webber--then there can be no doubt that, indeed, THEATER IS DEAD! The
"mirror held up to nature" has been shattered; the "final campfire"
has been smothered to ashes so that the rich can indulge themselves and the greedy can get
greeder.
Banderas is allowed to buy himself his own Land of Make-Believe as long as Mr.
Popular-Music-Theater can get his hands on the cold, hard cash. And what can anyone say
about it? He can do whatever selfish thing he likes with his own money. The downfall of
theater, the injustice to Mr. Crawford, the injury to all those who still believe in
quality, the destruction of Leroux's inspiring story make no difference to one this full
of himself. All this can go to hell for all he cares, as long as he can play "Let's
Pretend" up there on the silver screen.
Mr. Crawford-- in a just world, you would be the only Phantom now and evermore. I'd be
ecstatic to see you perform in NJ someday. May your charities bring you eternal rewards,
though at present others are indulging themselves at your expense. God bless you and your
charitable works, Godspeed thee well! |