Days 16 and 17

I woke on Day 17 newly introduced to the bane that has plagued my life these past three days: acute laryngitis. My throat felt like it had swollen shut overnight, and my voice (none too robust at the best of times) had been reduced to a whisper. I decided to spend the day in quiet (or lazy, depending on your point of view) contemplation, reading Henry IV Part 1 for our Shakespeare class. Erin and I went to St. George's Gardens to read. St. George's Gardens are a park that was built over a massive cemetery for the congregation of St. George's Church, seeing as there was no longer any room in the churchyard for bodies. At first, the congregation balked, not wanting to be buried in what they saw as unhallowed ground, but after an upper-class British noble took the brave step of being buried there, suddenly it was all okay. I presume they could tell that his soul had still managed to attain eternal bliss despite being buried outside the confines of the churchyard. Anyway, the area is now a small park where people take their dogs on walks and sit around and read books. That was the bulk of my day. Fascinating, I know.

Day 17 was much more interesting, as I finally made it out to the Imperial War Museum and to see Les Miserables. Going out to the Museum by myself gave me a chance to practice my Tube etiquette: if you are lucky enough to have a seat, you must stare at the middle distance, do not make eye contact, and say nothing until you arrive at your destination. If you are standing, hold onto the poles, try your best not to make physical contact with anyone, stare at the floor, and say nothing. Keeping an impression of staying separate from everything around you is helped greatly by wearing an mp3 player.

The Museum was amazing, and had a wonderful exhibition on the construction of the newest Great War cemetery. After wandering around amongst the V2 missiles and Jagdpanther tanks, I descended to the basement to walk through their sections on the World Wars. I only made it through most of World War One before I had to leave, but what a time it was. As you enter, there is a clock and an electronic dial displayed. Every minute on the clock is another life claimed by war in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and the dial stands in the hundreds of millions. While the museum does discuss how the advent of industrial warfare, and thus industrial slaughter of human beings, destroyed the notion of individual heroism and glory brought by sacrifice, as a British museum, it engages in its own propaganda. Douglas Haig and the High Command are glorified, despite their own separation from the experiences of the common soldier; the trauma of shell-shock is glossed over (the British are still having trouble coming to terms with the fact that they condemned hundreds of men to die for what they thought cowardice, but we now know to be PTSD), and very little emphasis is placed on the emotions of the soldiers: rather on simple recitations of battle plans.

Not for them are the films of men shaking years after the war is done, or unable to hear any word but 'bomb,' at which point they're compelled to fling themselves beneath the bed, or thrown into insane terror at the mere sight of a Pickelhaube. I make it sound like I didn't enjoy the experience, which isn't true; I enjoyed the museum greatly, I just wish that they could've said more about the cost that was inflicted, even upon the survivors, who consoled themselves with the knowledge that at least they'd helped end war. But even that consolation was taken away at the outbreak of World War Two.

As for Les Mis, Sweet Jebus it was great, and I was so mad when it was finished because I could have sat there listening to them sing for hours more. The actor they had for Jean Valjean was magnificent, and I actually enjoyed his version of 'Bring Him Home' far more than Cameron Mackintosh's, the man who originated the role of Jean Valjean and the Phantom both. He was relatively young from what I could tell, but he pulled off being old and weak at the end brilliantly. The environments were incredible: gobos created the illusion of moonlight falling across the floor; bridges over the Seine dropped in from the flyspace; enormous moving barricades came sliding in from the sides. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the young Cosette's 'Castle on a Cloud,' considering that I find most children's singing voices to be the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Gavroche, however, was still annoying, although I'm starting to think that having an annoying voice must be in the casting directions, as I've never heard a Gavroche that didn't sound like he was being strangled.

Somehow I didn't cry, which surprised me, having as I do a predilection for heroic sacrifice. I think part of this is because I was seated up so high that I could see the actor playing Enjolras moving around on the back of the barricade after his death. Enjolras, for those unacquainted with Les Mis, is the leader of the revolutionary students, and after the massacre at the barricades, the barricades rotate slowly to reveal his body draped over the French flag as an instrumental version of 'Bring Him Home' plays. If I hadn't been able to see Enjolras getting into position, I'm sure I would've bawled. It didn't matter, however; the two ladies behind me were crying enough for the entire theater. I was barely able to hear the finale because of how loud they were weeping. Still, it was a wonderful experience, and if I had an extra 44 pounds I'd gladly pay to see it again.

Now to see Phantom of the Opera while I'm here.

Photographs:

The massive guns placed outside the Imperial War Museum. These fired 15-inch shells, seen to either side of the barrels. One comes from HMS Roberts, another from HMS Ramillies.

A piece of the Berlin Wall.

A piece of British World War One propaganda. Called 'The Greater Game,' it depicts a young man on the pitch being asked if he will join the 'greater game' of war to save England's freedom, thus rendering industrial warfare a benign thing comparable to cricket.

The soldiers of World War One came up with their own names for their trenches, as 'forward trench,' 'reserve trench,' and 'communications trench' aren't that helpful in distinguishing one trench from another. Also, no one can say humor doesn't survive war.

Part of 'The Trenches' exhibition, where you walk through a mock-up of a trench with realistic fecal smells wafting in from above. You're also assaulted on all sides by the high-pitched screech and thunder of shells coming in. It's a good multimedia exhibition, a lot better than the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust's.