#Sacrifice your son's childhood and happiness by forcing him to be a child spy and abandoning him in the middle of a deadly storm

[cluescorner]

Some people: Kaeya’s bio father is an abusive monster who abandoned his son in order to achieve his own selfish goals. He is an evil man who deserves everything awful that might happen to him. 

Other people: Kaeya’s bio father did the right thing and leaving Kaeya in Mondstadt was the only way to give him a halfway-decent life. He is a better father than he is given credit for and should not be as hated as he is. 

Me: Kaeya’s bio father is integral to the general ‘war is hell and bad choices can reverberate across time’ thing that Genshin seems to be going for. He made unethical choices, but mostly because the ONLY OPTIONS HE HAD WERE UNETHICAL. If our understanding of the Alberich’s role in Khaenri’ah is accurate, General Alberich (my name for him until stated otherwise) was suddenly in charge of a hopeless and dead kingdom which begged to be saved. Assuming that there was a reason Kaeya specifically was chosen for this mission, General Alberich was forced into a position where he needed to choose between the lives/future of every Khaenri’an vs the life and future of his young son. Abandoning either is an awful thing to do and a horrible decision, but the bad decisions of Celestia and Rhinedottir have led to a scenario where General Alberich can only make bad decisions. In the end, he chose to prioritize his people and made his young son into a spy. We do not know the process for this, but knowing how much Hoyoverse loves to torment people (especially Khaenri’ans) we can assume that this process was horrific for Kaeya and could definitely be considered abuse. General Alberich is effectively making his son into a child soldier for a war that the majority of people never wanted or asked for, and one Kaeya was likely far too young to understand. At least, until he was forced to grow up far too quickly in order to fulfill his duty. General Alberich likely loathed everything about what was happening and even in his last moments with his son he asks for forgiveness. He knows that what he is doing is wrong, but to turn back now is to both abandon his subjects and make everything that happened to Kaeya in order to turn him into a child spy be for nothing. So yeah, General Alberich is a terrible person who made horrible choices. But war and the bad actions of others have created a situation where he has nothing BUT horrible choices and where being a terrible person is the only thing he can be. And that’s without considering how the curse/abyssal corruption could impact the scenario. 

#idk #I just think that Kaeya's father is kinda an Asgore situation #where the only decisions he could possibly make were awful and unethical ones but choosing neither would create an even worse outcome #also I want to clarify that both of the other interpretations that I parroted before giving my own thoughts are valid #because we are working with such limited information and yeah no shit people are gonna have differing thoughts #people have differing beliefs and perspectives on things which are CANONICALLY CONFIRMED to be clear situations with lots of info about it #so of course people are going to go in like 80 different directions with his character #BECAUSE WE HAVE NEXT TO NOTHING TO GO OFF OF #and basically every interpretation of him I've seen is pretty reasonable #Like yeah man's son is a child spy who was abandoned in a far away country for the purpose of being a spy for Khaenri'ah's interests #thinking that he was an abusive asshole isn't exactly unreasonable #nor is it unreasonable to believe that he was actually a decent man who left his son in Mondstadt as the 'only hope' of Khaenri'ah #because he just wanted Kaeya to live on and have a life outside of the Abyss #and Kaeya was mistaken when he thought he was simply being left behind as a pawn #Genshin is no stranger to unreliable narrators and this wouldn't be the first time a character story wildly mischaracterizes something #so like...both of those interpretations are valid #and pretty fair ones as well #But I think that it really is like an Asgore situation where yeah this guy sucks and he is an awful person who made so many bad choices #But also was left with nothing BUT bad choices through war and grief and other factors that were genuinely outside of his control #Sacrifice your son's childhood and happiness by forcing him to be a child spy and abandoning him in the middle of a deadly storm #or let your people (including yourself) rot away into nothingness while facing a fate worse than death while they all but scream to be saved #there are no good options #kaeya's father #don't take this too seriously I just really liked Undertale when I was younger and I'm getting Asgore vibes from General Alberich

[sithsecrets]

A Matter of Expediency - Part XIV

2.9 k After being married off to Kylo Ren in the name of securing an heir to the First Order’s throne, a princess tries to navigate the ins and outs of married life. As she grows closer to her new husband, the princess also carves out a place for herself in the Order, assuming control over her life when she thought she would have none.

---

Part 14

2.9k words

Mentions: family drama, crying, pregnancy, pregnant!reader, dead loved ones

---

Though it is your intention to deal with your family swiftly, your plans are pushed aside for a time.

In the wake of over twenty executions spanning across numerous planets and entire star systems, there’s much to be done. You spend days poring over work histories and background checks, working diligently to replace lost personnel. There are four positions that need filling on the Board of Charitable Affairs alone, though Hux is at your side to vet candidates. And then of course there’s spying to do, for several Valderan mineral companies are replacing key players in their operations. Canto Bight’s casino owners are kissing major ass, stolen funds need redistributing to various charities, several small insurrections must be crushed…

It’s like you blink and nearly a month’s gone by, days passing in a haze of paperwork, meetings, and formal appearances. You and Kylo are pulled here and there, always busy, always doing something, and the whole ordeal is more exhausting than you ever imagined it could be. Sleep becomes a luxury, and not for the first time do you find yourself marveling at the Chancellor’s ability to go without it. Still, the sacrifice is worth the reward, and you’re happy to see things straightening out amongst the Order’s possessions.

Finally, all is well, and you’re able to relax again. Handling your uncle and his children sits at the forefront of your mind, but you’re smart enough to know that you need rest before launching into yet another confrontation. Still, even after several days of decent sleep, you’re dragging your feet at midday, drowsiness clouding your mind and dulling your senses. More than once do you find the notion of taking a nap irresistible, and you sleep the sleep of the dead each time you lie down.

Miriam notices the change in your behavior immediately, though she says nothing as she helps you fix your hair and set your clothes straight each afternoon. Kylo is more vocal with his concerns, more insistent that you seek medical attention. He corners you one afternoon in your shared quarters, catching you just as you’ve awoken from another one of your naps.

“I fear someone or something has made you ill,” your husband presses, pushing back against your flippant view of the matter. You turn away from your vanity, amused as you take in your husband’s furrowed brow and tense posture.

“Kylo,” you say, voice dripping honey, “I’m just a little tired. I’m not dying.”

Your husband rushes to your side, taking your face in his hands as he becomes more desperate than you’ve ever seen him before. “My love, I am begging you—”

“And I,” you cut gently, turning to kiss the inside of his wrist, “am begging you to not worry about this.”

Kylo’s exasperation heightens, though you don’t let him go on.

“I’m fine, darling” you insist, fussing with the cuff of your husband’s sleeve. “I’ve never been better.”

---

Returning to the palace is almost surreal, everything just as you left it all those months ago. You hadn’t expected anything to change, not really, but the sameness of it all still makes your chest clench in the strangest way. Every rug, every tapestry, every artifact and decoration… each one reminds you of a time that was not long ago, though you can hardly recognize that version of yourself now.

Two Knights of Ren flank you on either side as you glide into the receiving room you know all too well, your only protection on your home planet. Kylo was insistent for a while there, demanded that you be attended by stormtroopers and Reds and a number of other personnel, but you managed to talk him out of it. Ap’lek and Vicrul are more valuable than fifty imperial guards put together, and besides, you are adored here— the chance of you being harmed is slim to none.

Your uncle’s throne still sits on its dais in the center of the room, this fixture too unchanged. You approach it cautiously, mildly afraid to be caught near the thing on principle. It was the cardinal rule of your childhood— do not sit on Uncle’s throne, not under any circumstances. How many tongue lashings had you received for climbing up here as a child? Ten? Twenty? You can’t be sure after all these years.

What you do know, however, is that your uncle’s throne is even more comfortable now than it was in your childhood.

As if on cue, the patriarch of your remaining family comes striding into the room, mid-conversation with one of his attendants. His entire body shudders when he lays eyes on you, no doubt surprised to see you, or anyone else, for that matter, in this room. Arriving unannounced was a key element in your plan, and, if your uncle’s wide-eyed, horrified gaze is anything to go by, it’s already having the desired effect.

You let your uncle splutter stupidly on the floor for a moment, let him go through aborted versions of your name, your old title, and your new one before he finally blurts, “What are you doing here?”

It’s by no means a respectful way to address his Empress, but you’re too pleased with the way he cringes at his own words to care.

Setting your expression carefully, you gesture about the room with one lofty hand. “I’m here for a visit, Uncle. I wanted to check on the state of things here.” Your voice drops, becomes less pleasant. “The state of our people.”

Your uncle looks as if he’s going to vomit. This pleases you.

Mila is the first to come before you, startled like her father was upon seeing your face. She has the decency to kneel though, to show you respect as she waits for her brothers to arrive. And they do after several minutes, the both of them looking ruffled and perturbed as they shuffle into the room.

“You do not kneel before you Empress?” Ap’lek snaps, incensed by the way Sebastian and Tensin make no move to join their father and sister on the floor.

Sebastian, the smart-mouthed little shit that he is, opens his mouth at once, no doubt about to spit something acidic and defiant in Ap’lek’s face. But your uncle stops his son before he can do something stupid, yanking the eldest boy down onto his knees.

“Shut up and kneel down,” the King hisses. “Both of you.”

Sebastian and Tensin need no further prompting after that, though they obviously aren’t happy about being forced to show fealty to you. Mila, however, looks almost afraid, refusing to meet your eyes even as she says, “To what do we owe this honor, Empress?”

You like this change in your cousin’s demeanor, like the way she addresses you with humility and respect. So, you answer her question calmly, though you can feel rage coming to a boil in your chest.

“I am here, Princess, to tell your father that I know what he’s been doing with his people’s money.”

At this, your uncle pales, shifting uncomfortably on his knees. He, too, now will not look you in the eye, an indirect but still very overt admission of his guilt. You can’t believe him, so shameless and yet so cowardly at the same time.

Your uncle drops his head, voice subdued as he speaks. “Empress, I think you’ve misunderstood—”

Something in your snaps then, for how dare he treat your like you’re stupid, like you haven’t been paying attention?

“Oh no, Uncle, it is you who has misunderstood,” you snap, rising from his throne. Venom drips from your every word, Ap’lek and Vicrul your dark, dangerous shadows as you stalk closer and closer to your family. “You misunderstand the purpose of your tax dollars; you misunderstand the needs of your people. They suffer under the financial burden you’ve placed upon them while you snort spice and fuck whores.”

“Do not speak to my father like that!” Sebastian shouts, jumping to his feet in front of you. His eyes are wild, but you are equally as enraged, getting in his face, daring him to so much as touch you.

“Harm me or my child and it will be the last thing you do, you insolent little fuck.”

All eyes land on you, the members of your family stunned into silence by the implications of what you’ve just said. Mila is the only one brave enough to speak, eyeing you from the floor with a look of utter shock slapped across her face. “You’re pregnant?”

Remembering yourself, you take a breath and set your hands on the almost imperceptible swell of your stomach. “Yes, I am pregnant,” you affirm, speaking softly as you think of all your days spent in bed and the way Kylo cried when you told him what you knew. It was the one reason he was so insistent that you come here armed to the teeth.

Your family looks upon you as if you’re a live explosive then, falling all over themselves to widen the distance between all of you. You crowd right back in, however, undeterred and unafraid. “All of you must understand, then, why I came to do this before my condition progresses any farther.”

Tensin decides to be bold. “And what would this be?”

Cutting your eyes away from him, you look squarely at the King. “I’ve come to take your father’s crown.”

The noise that comes out of Sebastian is indignant and angry. Mila gasps, eyes wide and terrified. Tensin turns white as a sheet. And your uncle? All he does is stare up at your stupidly, mouth opening and closing on what appears to be its own accord for several seconds.

“You can’t— You can’t do that,” he stammers, looking from you, to his throne, and back again. “You can’t— Who will rule in my place? You?”

“I have the galaxy, Uncle,” you state, voice even and calm. “I don’t need this planet.”

The King looks at his eldest son and then back at you, a silent question swimming behind his eyes. You refuse to answer it, simply holding out your hand and eyeing the crown that glitters before you.

“Take that ridiculous thing off your head.”

Your uncle hesitates for a moment, a look of utter heartbreak coming across his face as he finally reaches up and out, handing you his crown as instructed. You hold the thing in your hands for a moment, studying the craftsmanship, the fine jewels that glint so beautifully in the light…

And then you throw it at Mila’s feet.

The clang of metal against marble bounces off the walls of the room again and again, the sound almost painfully loud in your ears until Mila’s able to get her hands on her father’s crown— or, rather, her crown. You see tears in her eyes as she studies it, looking at the gold and gilding as if she can’t believe it’s real.

Your uncle is clearly bewildered, shaking his head as he asks, “Why?”

“Because she’s smarter and more capable than both of your sons put together.” You lean down, really get in his face so that he can feel your anger properly. “And to think that you were going to sell her to the highest bidder.”

These words suck all other protests from your uncle’s mouth, and you can see now that this is over.

“You and the Princes will leave this palace immediately,” you declare. “You are not allowed to return for a year.”

Tensin looks distressed. “This is our home!”

You eye him coolly. “Not anymore. I can’t have you poisoning Mila’s reign with your childish partying and idiotic ideas. Now leave me and your Queen alone, all of you.”

Your uncle and his sons stumble out of the room, dazed and humiliated. Mila finally rises to her feet once they’re gone still weakly clutching her crown in one hand. Tears stream down her face. She looks like she’s been punched in the gut.

“Don’t waste it,” you say simply, tossing your head towards the throne in the center of the room. “I can take it from you just as easily as I took it from him.”

“I won’t,” Mila whispers. You believe her.

“Goodbye, Your Majesty.”

And then you’re walking out of the room, your guards trailing behind you without a word.

Mila calls out after a moment, calls you by your title and then by your real name.

You turn to her. “Yes?”

“I—” Your cousin is distraught, eyes darting as she pants for breath. “I’ve been do awful to you. I treated you like dirt, I— You could have let Father sell me to that old man, and I would have been miserable. Why would you give me this instead?”

You stare her down for a moment, considering what to say. “I’m not like you, Mila. I’m not cruel.”

Mila shudders like she’s been slapped, and you turn to leave the room.

---

Ap’lek and Vicrul fly you out into the countryside after the lot of you make your exit from the palace, cruising at a comfortable speed as you take in the rush of scenery bellow you. This part of your planet feels as though it belongs somewhere else entirely, underdeveloped and free from the crowding of urban sprawl.

Your mother’s house, like the palace you just came from, is exactly as you remember it. The landscaping, the front steps, the courtyards— there’s not a blade of grass out of place, and the joy you feel because of this makes you want to weep.

Stepping inside is like stepping back inside, for you haven’t been to this place since you were a girl. Servants and small droids bustle about, putting on the finishing touches for your arrival. You’d asked to have the place opened up a couple of weeks ago, wanted to spend some time here after you finished dethroning your uncle. But now that you know you’re pregnant, you have other plans for this home.

Shooing Ap’lek and Vicrul away, you go exploring, halfway surprised that you still remember your way around. But no, you haven’t forgotten the layout of this house you love so much, these halls and rooms you played in as a baby.

You peek in your old bedroom, delighted to see that no one’s changed the colors on the walls. The same furniture that looked so big in your eyes then only looks average now— small, even. Your little window even faces the same flowers, the same fields, the same sunshine. At once, you decide that your child will know all these things too, just as you did.

Crossing the threshold in your mother’s room feels almost like stepping into a tomb, though the sensation is not one of dread or gloom like you thought it would be. Her bed and furniture are, like everything else in this house, just as they were when she was alive, though the vanity looks strange without her things strewn across it. You can remember your mother sitting there before the mirror, a tube of lipstick in her hand, a bottle of perfume close by. All little children think that their mothers are beautiful, and you were no different back then. Now, though, you realize that your mother really was a gorgeous woman, buxom and bright and so, so pretty. She would have you help her sometimes before she left for a party, would let you pick out her earrings or ask you which scent you liked better that night. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you reach up and unclip your own jewelry, laying the pieces out carefully on the vanity as your first action as this house’s new mistress.

The covers on the bed aren’t the ones your mother slept under, but you still feel like you’re crawling in bed beside her as you lie down. A length of time passes in silence after that, how much you can’t be sure, but you’re brought back to reality when you hear heavy boots in the hallway. Kylo appears in the doorway not one second later, quiet as he pauses to study you for a moment. And then he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and unlacing his boots, he’s lying down beside you. The two of your clasp hands, tangling your feet together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“How did it go?” Kylo asks, though you’re sure he already knows.

“Mila will be coronated this afternoon.”

Kylo nods, unfazed. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” you say softly, reaching out to stroke his cheek. Kylo turns to kiss your palm, gentle in the same way he’s been gentle since he found out about the baby.

“This is a very beautiful house,” Kylo declares, leaving the topic of your uncle and his children behind. “Why are we here?”

“This is where I grew up,” you explain, fingers in his hair now. “I was born in this room.”

Kylo almost-smiles. “What a lovely place for a child. I see why your mother chose it for you.”

It’s your turn to nod. “I know. I… I want to be pregnant here. I want to give birth here, like my mother did. The baby needs to feel the sun on his face, needs to breathe real air when he takes his first breath.”

Kylo pulls you closer, kisses the top of your head. “I’ve always thought space was too cold for an infant.”

And just like that, the matter’s settled.

Everything’s settled.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren fanfiction #ame #my writing #tw: pregnancy #cw: pregnancy #pregnant!reader

[cassandraxxlim]

Les miserable

I want to render a public service. I want to suggest that even if you were deeply moved by “Les Mis,” you can still save your soul. I don’t think you are damned forever. Salvation awaits. I realize that we are not supposed to argue about taste. De gustibus non est disputandum, as some Latin fellow said. But, in fact, critics do nothing but argue about taste. And I realize that emotion is even harder and riskier to argue about. But, as we have new experiences, emotions change. Therefore, in the interest of public health, I will try to bring cures to the troubled. But first, a few words about the movie version of “Les Misérables.” Mme. Magliore Housekeeper for the bishop and his sister. Jean Valjean Ex-convict still pursued by the law, who strives for moral perfection and achieves a kind of sainthood in his love for the little orphan Cosette. He is also known as M. Madeleine and M. Leblanc. Little Gervais Chimney sweep from whom Valjean steals a coin, his last criminal act for which Javert inexorably trails him. Fantine A beautiful girl of unknown parentage who comes to Paris at the age of fifteen. She falls in love with Tholomyès and bears an illegitimate child, Cosette. Forced to give up her child, Fantine is crushed and ultimately destroyed by adversity. Cosette Illegitimate daughter of Fantine, originally named Euphrasie. She has a wretched childhood as the ward of the brutal innkeeper Thénardier but later finds happiness in Valjean's devoted care and in the love of a young man. Félix Tholomyès A student, Fantine's lover, and father of Cosette. Thénardier An evil innkeeper who mistreats Cosette during her childhood, lures Valjean into an ambush, and commits various other crimes. He is also known as Jondrette and Fabantou. Mme. Thénardier A virago whose sweeping malevolence spares only her husband and her two daughters. Eponine Older daughter of the Thénardiers. As a child she is spoiled at Cosette's expense; later she becomes a ragged, hungry adolescent. Her love for Marius first endangers, then saves his life. Azelma Second daughter of the Thénardiers. Spoiled at first, her life becomes as miserable as her sister's. Gavroche The Thénardiers' oldest son, a typical Paris gamin. He dies heroically at the barricades in the revolution of 1832. Two little boys The Thénardiers' youngest children. Given by their parents to an acquaintance, Magnon, they wander the streets of Paris after she is arrested. Gavroche's protection gives them temporary solace. Inspector Javert An incorruptible policeman. He makes it his life's work to track down Jean Valjean. Fauchelevent Valjean, as Madeleine, saves his life; Fauchelevent later is gardener at the convent of the Little Picpus and gives shelter to Valjean and Cosette. Bamatabois An idler of the town who torments Fantine by putting snow down her back. Champmathieu The man accused of being Jean Valjean, on whose behalf "Madeleine" reveals his true identity. Sister Simplicity A nun who lies to save Valjean from Javert. Boulatruelle An old roadworker, ex-convict, and minor associate of the underworld chiefs. He is constantly seeking buried treasure in the forest near Montfermeil. The Prioress Head of the convent where Valjean and Cosette live for several years. Mestienne and Gribier The two gravediggers. Mestienne, friend of Fauchelevent, dies suddenly, and his place is taken by Gribier, nearly causing Valjean to be buried alive. M. Gillenormand Relic of the Enlightenment, he is hostile to the romantic love and liberal politics of his grandson Marius. Mlle. Gillenormand Gillenormand's daughter, a lackluster old maid whose interests are limited to devotional practices. Marius Pontmercy An idealistic student who falls passionately in love with Cosette and later marries her. Colonel Georges Pontmercy Marius' father, an officer of Napoleon's, named by him a colonel, a baron, and an officer of the Legion of Honor. Lieutenant Théodule Gillenormand M. Gillenormand's grandnephew. He is asked to spy on his cousin Marius. Magnon Friend of Mme. Thénardier. She bears two illegitimate boys, for whom M. Gillenormand, her former employer, pays all expenses. When the boys die, the Thénardiers gladly give her their two youngest sons in exchange for a share of the money. M. Mabeuf An old horticulturist and bibliophile, now a churchwarden. He is instrumental in revealing to Marius the truth about his father. Later, driven by destitution, he dies a heroic death at the barricades. Mother Plutarch Servant of M. Mabeuf; shares his poverty to the end. Montparnasse, Claquesous, Gueulemer, and Babet The four chiefs of the Paris underworld, occasionally associated with Thénardier. Enjolras An uncompromising political radical who dies courageously as the leader of a group of student insurrectionists. Grantaire Enjolras' friend. He is a drunken cynic who redeems a useless existence by sharing Enjolras' death before a firing squad. Combeferre Friend of Enjolras and second in command of the student insurrectionists. Courfeyrac A student. With Enjolras and Combeferre, he helps incite and lead the insurrection. Jean Prouvaire A friend of Enjolras and one of the group of revolutionaries. He is rich, sensitive, and intelligent. Bahoral A law student and revolutionary. He is good-humored and capricious, and refuses to be serious in his studies. Joly A student. A hypochondriac, he is nevertheless a spirited and happy companion. Bossuet A student revolutionary. Although he signs his name "Lègle (de Meaux)," he is called Bossuet (Bald), Laigle (The Eagle), and occasionally Lesgle. Feuilly A self-taught worker, and an ardent insurrectionist Le Cabuc Shoots a porter during the insurrection and is executed by Enjolras. May actually have been Claquesous. I had never seen the show or heard the score; I came to the material fresh, without preconception, and throughout the entire hundred and fifty-seven minutes I sat cowering in my seat, lost in shame and chagrin. This movie is not just bad. It’s terrible; it’s dreadful. Overbearing, pretentious, madly repetitive. I was doubly embarrassed because all around me, in a very large theatre, people were sitting rapt, awed, absolutely silent, only to burst into applause after some of the numbers, and I couldn’t help wondering what in the world had happened to the taste of my countrymen—the Filipinos (Filipinos!) who loved the greatest musical ever made, Les Miserables. Didn’t any of my neighbors notice how absurdly gloomy and dolorous the story was? How the dominant blue-gray coloring was like a pall hanging over the material? How the absence of dancing concentrated all the audience’s pleasure on the threadbare songs? How tiresome a reverse fashion show the movie provided in rags, carbuncles, gimpy legs, and bad teeth? How awkward the staging was? How strange to have actors singing right into the camera, a normally benign recording instrument, which seems, in scene after scene, bent on performing a tonsillectomy? Hugh Jackman, as the aggrieved Jean Valjean, delivers his numbers in a quavering, quivering, stricken voice—Jackman doesn’t sing, he brays. Russell Crowe as Javert, his implacable pursuer, stands on parapets overlooking all of Paris and dolefully sings of his duty to the law. Then he does it again. Everything is repeated, emphasized, doubled, as if to congratulate us on emotions we’ve already had. The young women, trembling like leaves in a storm, battered this way and that by men, never exercise much will or intelligence. Anne Hathaway, as Fantine, gets her teeth pulled, her hair chopped, and her body violated in a coffin box—a Joan of Arc who only suffers, a pure victim who never asserts herself. Hathaway, a total pro, gives everything to the role, exploiting those enormous eyes and wide mouth for its tragic-clown effect. Like almost everyone else, she sings through tears. Most of the performances are damp. The music is juvenile stuff—tonic-dominant, without harmonic richness or surprise. Listen to any score by Richard Rodgers or Leonard Bernstein or Fritz Loewe if you want to hear genuine melodic invention. I was so upset by the banality of the music that I felt like hiring a hall and staging a nationalist rally. “My fellow-countrymen, we are the people of Jerome Kern and Irving Berlin! Cole Porter and George Gershwin, Frank Loesser and Burton Lane! We taught the world what popular melody was! What rhythmic inventiveness was! Let us unite to overthrow the banality of these French hacks!” (And the British hacks, too, for that matter.) Alas, the hall is filled with people weeping over “Les Mis.” Is it sacrilege to point out that the Victor Hugo novel, stripped of its social detail and reduced to its melodramatic elements, no longer makes much sense? That the story doesn’t connect to our world (which may well be the reason for the show’s popularity)? Jean Valjean becomes a convict slave for nineteen years after stealing some bread for his sister’s child. He has done nothing wrong, yet he spends the rest of his life redeeming himself by committing one noble act after another, while Javert pursues him all over France. Wherever Valjean goes, Javert shows up; he’s everywhere at once, like the Joker in “The Dark Knight,” who was at least intended to be a fanciful creation. Every emotion in the movie is elemental. There’s no normal range, no offhand or incidental moments—it’s all injustice, love, heartbreak, cruelty, self-sacrifice, nobility, baseness. Which brings us to heart of the material’s appeal. As everyone knows, the stage show was a killer for girls between the ages of eight and about fourteen. If they have seen “Les Mis” and responded to it as young women, they remain loyal to the show—and to the emotions it evoked—forever. At that age, the sense of victimization is very strong, and “Les Mis” is all about victimization. That the story has nothing to with our own time makes the emotions in it more—not less—accessible, because feeling is not sullied by real-world associations. But whom, may I ask, is everyone crying for? For Jean Valjean? For Fantine? Fantine is hardly on the screen before she is destroyed. Indeed, I’ve heard of people crying on the way into the movie theatre. It can’t be the material itself that’s producing those tears. “Les Mis” offers emotion… about emotion. But, you say, what’s wrong with a good cry? What harm does it do anyone? No harm. But I would like to point out that tears engineered this crudely are not emotions honestly earned, that the most cynical dictators, as Pauline Kael used to say, have manipulated emotions with the same kind of kitsch appeal to gut feelings. Sentimentality in art is corrosive because it rewards us for imprecise perceptions and meaningless hatreds. Revolution breaks out in “Les Mis.” What revolution? Against whom? In favor of what? It’s just revolution—the noble sacrifice of handsome, ardent boys taking on merciless power. The French military, those canaille, gun down the beautiful boys. It’s all so generic. The vagueness is insulting. And now, the real point: our great musicals were something miraculous. They were a blessed artifice devoted to pleasure, to ease and movement, exultation in the human body, jokes and happy times, the giddiness of high hopes.