Back for more Phantomized Classics, I see? Wise of you. You shan't regret it. I am, however, finally obligated to tell you that this shall indeed be our finale. The madness has been going on for almost two years now (I can't believe it either!). But weep not for these strange little parodies, for they will return soon . . . metamorphosed . . . better! And now, for our amazing, wonderful, finale.
Song: I Feel Pretty (Original Musical: West Side Story)
Idea From: Only Erik's, Me, TheGoddessofDeath, phantomgirl110, Glitter Queen of The Ice Show (I think that's all of ya! Sorry if I left anybody out. : )
Sung by: Everybody – hence the term finale: )
OH! AND THIS ONE HAS A STORYLINE! CHECK IT OUT!
While going through his box of old opera programs, Raoul finds something rather odd. You and I would call it a digital camcorder, but living in 1831 Raoul de Chagny wouldn't know a camcorder from a hole in the wall. Well, maybe that doesn't have much to do with the fact that it's 1831. Somehow, without a manual (not that any self-respecting male would use a manual for anything but a place to spit gum anyway) Raoul manages to get the camera recording. In his state of fascination at the sight of his own flawless little imagine on the playback screen, a strange impulse to burst into song somehow gets the better of him…
I feel pretty,
Oh, so pretty,
I feel pretty and witty and gay,
And I pity
The phantom who isn't me today!
I feel dashing,
Oh, so dashing -
Just so dashing, and smashing, and free,
And so pretty
I feel privileged for being me!
Do you hear that voice in the mirror there?
Who can your 'angelic' voice be?
Such a pretty voice,
Such pretty song,
Such a pretty face?
No, leave that to me!
I feel lovely
Feel so bubbly and and active and well
And so pretty
That to your phantom you can say farewell!
Very pleased with himself over his little routine, Raoul slipped the digital recorder into his fob pocket along with his comb and compact mirror. Whistling a familiarly jaunty tune, he hailed a cabriolet and left for the Paris Opera. However, as Raoul arrived, he got a little overly excited and left his jacket backstage after wishing Christine good luck. Who was to find it? We'll see.
"Well, what is it?" Meg asked.
"I don't know," Jammes replied. "But it looks quite boring. I'm quite frankly disappointed."
"Well then, give it here," Meg demanded, reaching for it. Suddenly, however, as Meg jerked away, a button was hit. The most unbearable, unearthly sound filled the dressing room, and both girls lunged at the little silver device.
"For heaven's sake, Meg, shut it up!" Jammes exclaimed over the din.
"I'm trying! The only button I can find is red and says 'RECORD'."
"Well, if that's the best you can do!"
"OH, NEVER MIND!"
Suddenly, the sound ended. Both sighed with relief, but suddenly, Meg spotted her hand in the viewfinder. The two looked at each other.
There was only one thing to do.
I feel pretty.
Oh, so pretty!
That all Paris should come to see ME!
At least dancing is always in key!
That excitement is all that I know!
I just have to tell someone or I'll explode!
See that pretty girl in the mirror there?
Who can that attractive girl be?
Such a pretty face
Such a pretty dress
Such a pretty smile
THAT IT MUST BE ME!
During the minor scuffle regarding the final line of their song, Meg and Jammes also manage to lose the device. Not that they found it on purpose to begin with, they often make a habit of digging through Raoul's pockets. Where else did you think that all of their expensive cosmetics came from? Anyway. As the pair was rolling on the floor, scrambling for the recorder (that each thought that the other possessed) a slight, masked figure slipped in from the corridor outside. Silently talking the device off of the dresser and slipping it into his cloak, he departed almost as demurely as he had entered.
As he descended the stairs, Erik curiously examined the little black and silver device in his gloved palm. It would occasionally whir and make noise, much to his surprised amusement. He continued to poke at it, pressing random buttons and waiting for the results. Suddenly, however, he saw the reflection of the white mask in the viewfinder and stopped short. An emotion that mere words could not describe came over him.
I feel pretty
Oh so pretty
That I think I need to change the key!
I'm so pretty
I could sing an octave up, in D!
This is something all Paris should hear!
That I need to find a chandelier!
In his mysteriously induced and almost child-like euphoria, Erik began to race double-time down the stairs. Finally, about seven flights down, he found himself at the mouth of the hallway that led to Christine's mirror. As he slipped through, however, his cloak caught on a lever. Though he managed to escape unscathed, he somehow missed the small, rectangular recorder falling out of his pocket . . .
Christine barely wasted time examining the strange little box on her dressing room floor. She had a performance to prepare for. She did, however, pick it up and look it over. Shrugging in resignation and lack of interest, she placed it back on the dresser. However, unbeknownst to even herself, she had pressed a button. As she finished her hair and hummed, she had no idea that every move she made was being recorded. Slowly, her humming formed words.
How do you solve a problem like the Phantom...
A tall man in a director's uniform steps into the dressing room and shoves a script into Christine's hands. She looks it over briefly, nods, and he walks away.
I feel pretty
Oh so pretty
That the lyrics don't matter to me
Oh so pretty
I can sing most anything I please
Putting her script down and fluffing her hair one last time, Christine turned and left the dressing room. Assuming the odd little box (which had finally run out of memory) belonged to someone else at the opera, she decided to leave it nicely in the closest thing that they had to a lost and found: the managers' office.
"Zees vil be my last season, if you do not find a vay to keep things in order around 'zis opera!" Carlotta shook her finger in Andre and Firmin's direction, before turning and storming out of the office, Ubaldo in tow. This was becoming almost a weekly ritual now, and after it was over, both managers turned and shrugged before resuming their work. However, Firmin stopped short at an odd little thing sitting on his desk.
"What do you think this might be?" he inquired, turning it over in his hand.
"A paperweight?" Andre suggested. "Maybe the Opera Ghost was feeling generous for once."
The two laughed sarcastically, but nevertheless, Firmin took the little block and set it down rather firmly on a stack of papers. As he did so, however, the rather prominently placed 'PLAY' button that had affected similarly two young ballerinas only hours earlier was once again jammed into the 'on' position. The two managers watched in awed horror as the whole, frightening film played out before them.
Finally, it came to a finish. Silence overtook the office for a moment.
Suddenly, both managers beamed at each other in perfect unison and leapt atop their desks, glasses of champagne and all.
ANDRE AND FIRMIN:
I feel pretty,
Oh so pretty,
I feel pretty, and witty, and . . . . . . . . . . . bright!
And I pity
Everyone who sang these songs tonight!
Thank you all for all of your support and appreciation for this phic every step of the way! You all are amazing!
I'll invite the entire cast and all my reviewers up for a curtain call, you all deserve it.
(Applause is heard)
I'm still not owning any featured musicals (including Phantom!) but I do own about half of the ideas (maybe a little less) and a clay sign saying that it truly is all Voltaire's fault. And I don't own Terminator. You'll soon see why.
Much love, peace out, and rock on to all! See you at the Tony's!
-Shekiah : )
I'll be back!