dramatics

went and saw 'les miserables' with inky, for whom it was a 5-year-old-dream-come-true type of event. i didn't want to go initially, having an anti-tragedy kind of attitude towards play watching. but she caught me at a vulnerable moment. had money in my pocket and time on my hands, as well as the ususal procrastinatory feelings towards my coursework; so on aldwych, when we asked the usual 'ab kya karein', she tried her 'les mis dekhte hain na!' line for the umpteenth time. this time, i said, 'aah, whatthafuck, let's see it.' i like to keep my friends happy anyway, as long as it doesn't discommode me too much.

so, apparently, french novel writers have a very distinct style. they write at length, their stories span generations and lifetimes, they have a thing for revolution, and somehow, in the most grand and large scale of narratives, they manage to bring out the most human emotions and actions. snippets only sometimes, like when in the middle of a courtship scene, a father betrays his jealousy of his daughter's love for the son-in-law to be. gallantry is a solid theme; of old men who live life by their own rules, of swashbuckling revolutionary leaders who die with a swagger, of rag-children, ammo collectors, and my favourite, of poor and young women, who live on the margins, true only to themselves and the secret (and foolish) desires in their heart for men who are high and puissant and neglectful. this particular young woman, who seemed to me the best role and the best actress in the play, had to be killed off conveniently before the hero could marry the heroine. it happened in style of course, with all manner of bravery on her part, and one last, unfinished kiss. kinda threw me into despair... now i can't die to be the valiant-woman-in-love to perfection! does no one fall in love with the type? do they always end up with the best lyrics, the most poignant scenes, and no happy endings? dear oh dear. as i was telling inky, 'ab apna posish validate karne ke liye marna padega'.

the theme of successful young love is looked at a bit critically otherwise; young men are romantic and have lots of fervour in the belly and not much in the brains department. and there's always a (n irritating) child-woman figure. everyone loves her, she is protected always, perhaps to balance against a sad and abusive childhood.

cannot but comment on the sets. wicked. they had 2 huge masses of junk that they used for everything in great splendour. they didn't spare a single way to run on, hang from, clutch at or squeeze past these mammoths; must have excellent workshops on using the set... i suppose they rehearse all the time if they're a pro-group? they were everything, these junk sculptures. they became whole slums in the poor arrondissemonts in paris, a horse-drawn carriage to get trapped under in rural streets, war cannon, and a splendid barricade across wide hausmann boulevards. some readers may recall a certain (also valiant) theatre group in Delhi that loves to weld motorbike parts together to make trees. well, this was very reminescent of that. only a 100 times bigger and consequently, more detailed and less abstract. there was also one pretty balcony, 3 tables, some chairs and a gate in two pieces.

have decided that if i get a job here next year, will seriously try to get back into theatre. although there weren't any brown faces on stage at the Queen's Theatre last night, somewhere there will be.