#of les mis being the play du jour for the wealthiest while at the same time having such an active fanbase of normal people

[jojotier]

i'll be real with you nothing has radicalized me quite like the experience of seeing les mis live. and not bc of the themes of the show or anything, because like, les mis is an excellent show don't get me wrong, but just metanarratively.

because walking to my cheap ass seat in the theatre i was jostled by assholes in full tuxedos, heard derisive sniffs from ladies with pearls around their necks, overheard a dozen conversations about what new overpriced restaurant just opened up in the city. I'm only lucky that the cheap seats were filled with people like me- younger, not necessarily white and not necessarily ultra-wealthy- who could ease the atmosphere.

the show itself was beautiful. i dont think i'll ever forget that particular Valjean's rendition of 'bring me home'- it was the highest, most perfectly angelic version i've ever known. the rebels at the barricades touched my heart because there I could see in them myself and those i knew- artists and dreamers, who still wanted to do better, to make sure everyone up top did better.

the end always rubs me a bit the wrong way. Marius just gets to go back to living in relative wealth and prosperity while all his lower-class friends are dead and gone; perhaps he'll do good beyond the end of the show, but we'll never see it. in terms of the show itself, it rubs me the wrong way, but i don't hold it against the show either- it's likely a result of the source material and the time in which the show was written.

but even so, despite that, as i stood with the rest of the crowd for a standing ovation, it was impossible to ignore how that effected the audience. because as i filed my way out of the theatre, those same rich patrons from the best seats with their furs around their necks and drink laden in their voices, were wiping teary eyes and gushing about how wonderfully brave those rebels were, how tragic their deaths, how it was simply the most marvelous show.

all the while, keeping a mistrustful eye on the poor tranny in somewhat ill-fitting clothes, dressed sunday best but no better. wondering in whispers whether they just let anybody in. because certainly, they loved every character on stage. they felt enjorlas' death as though their own damned child's. but the moment Marius can go back his life of refinement, so can they- they can dust off their gloves and gossip about the newest Manolo Blannik collection. they were more than happy to leave the barricade behind.

i don't have that luxury. the barricade lives within the walls of this house, lucky as i am to live in one. it only takes one fire. one hail of shrapnel. it takes one storm to blow everything i am trying to one day have away. if only i were some abstract concept, maybe they could spare an ounce of pity; if they had no choice but to watch me from beyond the veil. but i dared to occupy the same space as they, and it was an injustice that easily outweighed their cursory sympathy.

never before had it been cemented just how much of a different world the truly rich live in. it took me months of saving for a lone ticket and nothing else; for them, it would have merely been a drop in the bucket to have the best seats, the best wine, the best clothes, all to make a spectacle of watching poor people die.

and isn't that the greatest irony? les miserables is a story about poor men trying to either cheat the system which is rigged against them or abolish it for something for everyone, and yet, it attracts the wealthiest as flies to honey. never once do they question themselves. never once do they question the system. if they had that introspection, they still wouldn't do a damn thing about it.

after all- what's more entertaining to the rich than watching the unworthy masses struggle to matter in a system oiled only by their blood?