Les Miserables

I had the pleasure of enjoying the new film version of Les Miserables this evening.  I first fell in love with its music during preparations for a high school Broadway-themed choir concert.  After years of dormancy, that stirring of amore visited my heart this evening, once more, and continued to stir... up through the chest, squeezing the larynx, all the way into my skull.  With nowhere left to journey, all of that deep affection proceeded to pour out of my eyeballs.  For hours.  In public!  

I'm not sure how I maintained hydration during this multiple-hour sobbing jag.  Maybe the extra salty popcorn played its part somehow.  Other characters in my lovefest were my fellow theater patrons, sobbing and nose-honking right along side of me.  In front and behind.  (This excludes the man in the Adidas track pants sitting closest to my left; apparently dragged there by his wife and whom disturbingly escaped to the bathroom multiple times. I won't judge though.  Maybe he just needed to cry in private?)

If the audience were my fellow characters, this leaves the stars of my lovefest to be the stars of the amazing film.  Hugh Jackman (Talent and voice beyond unreal!)  Anne Hathaway (Broke my heart!)  Russell Crowe (Hate that character, so you're doing your job!)  Samantha Barks (Every girl's been an Eponine at least once in her life. Thanks for the memories!)  Eddie Redmayne as Marius (So noble and sweet.)  Amanda Seyfried (Who knew Karen from Mean Girls was a flawless soprano?)  Sasha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter as the nasty Master and Madame of the House (Mary and Joseph won't be staying at your inn!)  And, Daniel Huttlestone as Gavroche (Breaking whatever puny parts of my heart were left after Annie Hathaway got through with it!)

All my praise and all of the film and its makers' Oscar-worthiness aside, this would not be a proper blog post if I didn't mention of few slight observations.

• The French, in musical form, sound a heck of alot like Cockney Brits.
• Love-at-first-sight seems somehow believable when pronounced in song.  (Silly, but more believable in Les Mis, than in, say... West Side Story. Gag, Maria.  You hussy!)
• After witnessing Sasha Baron Cohen's brilliant performance as Thenardiers, I will be deeply disappointed if he ever goes back to playing any of his guerrilla comedy characters.  I don't care if you're offered one billion dollars for a Borat sequel, Mr. Cohen!  We've now seen what you can do.  Take that offer and squash it in your meat grinder!  If not, I vow a plague on both you houses.  (Yes, both.  Helena, that means you, too.  I now appoint you Sasha's keeper!)
• Speaking of Helena... I applaud her subtle staccato pronouncing of the lyric, "sh*t."  In every other performance I'd ever heard of "Master of the House", the Madame Thenardiers always over-emphasises the "sh*t".  As if to say, "SH*T!  Do you hear me in the back row?  I said sh*t and I said it loud.  I sang it even!  How often do you get to sing 'sh*t' on stage? ♫SH*T♫!!!"  Thanks for your restraint Ms. Carter.
• Speaking once again of Helena Bonham Carter... talk about perfect casting!  If anyone else had been chosen for the role, I would have thrown pie at the screen.
• Hugh Jackman's tongue looks to be especially slippery.  Seriously!  With all of those tight shots and wide-mouthed singing I observed not one taste bud.  I knew he couldn't possibly be human!
• SPOILER ALERT: Was that sound effect really necessary in Russell Crowe's final scene?  Those who've already seen it... you know what I'm talking about.
• Dear Fantine, who knew a bad last haircut in life would be deemed permanent for all of eternity.  Here's to hoping hair grows much faster in the afterlife!
• My next charitable donation will be floss and Whitestrips to the nation of France.
• I feel I've learned more about French history in this three-hour period of fiction than in years of schooling.  Boy, I hope this knowledge is historically accurate or I'm gonna look like an absolute dummy next round of Trivial Pursuit.
• I've never in my life used more restraint to not burst out singing in song.  Maybe in twenty years there will be "bouncing ball" sing-along midnight showings of the flick.  Then again, these brilliant performances do not need an untrained audience drowning them out. 

On this page I will now write my last confession:  My tear ducts are officially in working order.  But, I guess you've probably gathered that by now. 

(P.S. If you're looking for me this Oscar night, I'll be in front of the tube---extra-salty popcorn in bowl---cheering on the stars of my lovefest.)