Unbetitelt

Obviously he sounds a bit older (not a bad thing and very fitting for the role!) but some of those notes could have been right out of 1995 I swear! Among others “theeere” (out in the darkness?!?!) I think it comes down to his vowels— “Honest maaaan” and “bllloood” are so recognizable; and then you remember that while half of the Bishop's lines are the Empty Chairs melody, what are the other half? the police melody, which of course is because he's replying to the gendarmes but belongs mostly to Javert (and of course is later used mockingly at him by the students) But it's so much softer and gentler here that you almost forget it's the same tune he sung so sharply 30-35 years ago. "but my friend you left so early, surely something slipped your mind" -> "well of course he now denies it! you'd expect that of a con." and "so messieurs you may release him for this man has spoken true" -> "tell me quickly what's the story who saw what and why and where" etc. So that was just super special for me to realize. And he's still an enunciating king

and those EYES! PEOPLE those eyes!!! It’s not as clear in the low res video but every time he looked up as if looking at God, I just kept going WOW I’ve seen those eyes do that before, except 30 years ago he was looking at the Stars instead with just the same amount of reverence

Seeing him hold the candlesticks and hand them off to Géronimo Rauch was also such a profound and spiritual moment as well, kind of like when Colm hands them off to Huge JackedMan

final note-during intermission the lady and her daughter behind me were talking about which singer's voices they liked and they both went “actually the guy who had the best voice was the one who played the bishop” (reads program) "oh he played Javert before" like ladies you don’t even know

obligatory disclaimer that I was as respectful as possible while recording, with my phone screen absolutely never visible and I am only doing this with the utmost love in my heart for the show and this man, I am only a servant of the people

The chapter of Les Misérables which lends its name to the title of this dissertation, ‘Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk,’ is also the chapter in which Enjolras and Grantaire meet their fates. Hugo is not subtle in this allusion, the reference being made here of course to Orestes, son of Agammemnon, and his companion, Pylades. When learning of Orestes’ fated death, twice, in both of Euripides’ plays Orestes and Iphigenia Among the Taurians, Pylades both times offers to die by his side, proudly stating in the latter, “it would be shameful for me to go on living while you do not,” and similarly asking him in the former, “hold on, hold on, I have to protest. Do you think I would choose to live without you?” Pylades has not committed the crime Orestes has, that of matricide, and yet is willing to die alongside him in the name of friendship. Grantaire, then, this drunk Pylades, mirrors his actions and professes his own willingness to die with Enjolras, his sober Orestes:

Relegated, as he was, to one corner, and sheltered behind the billiard table, the soldiers whose eyes were fixed on Enjolras, had not even noticed Grantaire, and the sergeant was preparing to repeat his order, “Take aim!” when all at once, they heard a strong voice shout beside them, “Long live the Republic! I’m one of them.”

Grantaire had risen. The immense gleam of the whole combat that he had missed, and in which he had had no part, appeared in the brilliant glance of the transfigured drunken man.

The National Guard have not noticed Grantaire, his friends have forgotten about him, and so perhaps has the reader, and yet here he is about to die for the very principles of Enjolras’ he initially scorned. Like Pylades, he is unwilling to live in a world in which there is no Enjolras, in which there is no idealism, no hope, for after all, ‘Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras.’ Despite his ridicule of Enjolras and his eternal optimism, in seeing him accept his fate so readily, Grantaire realises both the extent to which Enjolras is willing to go because of his beliefs, and the extent to which he himself is willing to follow him, and thus decides to make the ultimate sacrifice, repeating ‘“Long live the Republic!” [crossing] the room with a firm stride and [placing] himself in front of the guns beside Enjolras.’ Grayling has also written of the pair:

Enjolras and Grantaire in Hugo’s Les Misérables… and many others, are likened to the mythical princes Orestes and Pylades, who figure in every list of pairs of heroic friends… Devotion, absolute loyalty, a passionate readiness to die in the other’s place in order to save him: this combination is the key trope in these passionate friendships, and even if the occurrence of the trope in later literature was strictly homosocial, appeal to the example of Orestes and Pylades is always intended to evoke the bond’s unyielding strength.

Like Pylades, and Nisus, another of the classical figures which Hugo alludes to earlier in the novel, Grantaire’s final act, borne from his desire, is his last act of devotion to Enjolras and his principles, which, as can be seen in his unlikely declaration of “I’m one of them,” have finally become Grantaire’s principles also.

The allusion here does not just refer to solely that of Orestes and Pylades, however, but rather it can extend to encapsulate the broader myth of the House of Atreus as a whole when analysed in the wider context of the French Revolution. If Enjolras is Orestes, a ‘priest of the Republic,’ then surely the National Guard, and by extension, the monarchy and government of France in 1832, represent Clytemnestra, Orestes’ mother whom he murders in the name of avenging his father, Agammemnon. But just how far back in Greek mythology can this allusion be traced? The story of Orestes and the events which lead to him committing the crime of matricide arguably begin with the start of the Trojan War, and Agammemnon’s decision to sacrifice his eldest daughter, Iphigenia, in order to appease the goddess Artemis and be granted strong winds for sailing to Troy in return, deceiving both his daughter and her mother through the guise of a wedding as opposed to a sacrificial ritual. Despite any personal beliefs one might harbour, it can be said that Agammemnon carries out this sacrifice in the name of the greater good, murdering his own kin to achieve the aims of the army, and thus, those original ‘priests of the Republic,’ the men of ’93, mirror his actions. The devastating and numerous losses of the Terror, losses of not just the bourgeoisie and monarchy, but men turning upon men as a result of distrust, those who went to the guillotine themselves after executing so many others, must be represented by Iphigenia, then, the picture of innocence, a virgin offering to the virgin goddess.

This selfish sacrifice on the part of Agammemnon understandably enrages Clytemnestra, Iphigenia’s mother, who spends the following ten years plotting the murder of her own husband almost as soon as he returns from war, avenging her daughter and thus continuing the curse of the House of Atreus, or the bloodshed of the Republic, which is still existent despite the end to it. Even in the wake of the empire and the subsequent restoration, Clytmnestra’s role in this allegory, the actions of the men of ’93, or Agammemnon, must still be atoned for, however many years it has been since said action. Elektra, though, adores her father, and it is thus no surprise that she detests her mother for murdering him. If Clytemnestra is the murderer of the Republic, the A B C are her opposition, her own children, the avengers of the Jacobins. The A B C support their leader, Enjolras, and share his aims to restore the Republic, not dissimilar to Elektra’s alliance with and support of her brother, Orestes. Pylades, then, has no real motivation or desire to murder Clytemnestra, let alone die for the deed, but like Grantaire, offers to regardless for he exists to be tied to his friend, the two ‘only exist on condition that they are backed up with another man; their name is a sequel, and is only written preceded by the conjunction and; and their existence is not their own; it is the other side of an existence that is not theirs.’ Grantaire’s final plea to Enjolras mirrors Pylades’ aforementioned statements so strongly:

“Finish both of us at one blow,” said he.

And turning gently to Enjolras, he said to him, “Do you permit it?”

Enjolras pressed his hand with a smile.

This smile was not ended when the report resounded.

Enjolras, pierced by eight bullets, remained leaning against the wall, as though the balls had nailed him there. Only, his head was bowed.

Grantaire fell at his feet, as though struck by a thunderbolt.