It was December, 2023, and Pierre Poilievre had started a speech to Bay Street executives by spelling out his aversion to them.

The audience took in the scolding with stony faces. You could have forgiven some of them, however, for having a good-humoured chuckle into their buffet plates of cod or chicken.

Shrewder listeners probably understood why Poilievre was casting them as aloof and indifferent aristocrats, while presenting himself as an intimate ally of the country’s aggrieved majority. A year and a half ago, it was still the season for targeting and tarring Canada’s elite, and this was kabuki theatre, using exaggerated, stylized gestures of combat to conjure a sense of conflict and confrontation—even though none existed.

After all, Poilievre was fresh from a flurry of private events at which precisely this crowd had donated thousands of dollars to rub shoulders with him. Just the night before, he had mingled with bankers, real estate investors, and corporate executives at a $16-million French-style manor that boasted an elevator, indoor basketball court, and a dressing room bigger than most downtown apartments.