*/****
starring Hugh Jackman, Russell Crowe, Anne Hathaway, Sacha Baron Cohen
screenplay by William Nicholson, Alain Boublil, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Herbert Kretzmer, based on Boublil & Schönberg’s stage play and the novel by Victor Hugo
directed by Tom Hooper
by Walter Chaw The title refers to the audience; imagine director Tom Hooper as James Cagney in The Public Enemy, and you’re Mae Clarke getting the grapefruit shoved in your face. Yes, Hooper’s glacial, note-for-note screen adaptation of Schönberg & Boublil’s smash musical Les Misérables is 157 minutes of extreme close-up/wide-angle theatre threatening, at every moment, to slide completely off the screen, given the accidental-auteur’s propensity to ignore half the frame. It’s ugly in the way that only films driven by fanatical vision, unfettered by checks, and galvanized by awards and money can be ugly–so much time is spent horning in up Hugh Jackman’s nose that I spent the first day or so of it thinking I was watching a musical about spelunking. It’s a picture that doesn’t respect your personal space: I’ve never more wanted to mace a movie than this, the umpteenth adaptation of Victor Hugo’s epic but the first of the Broadway phenomenon that pretty much defined the best way to get into a high-school girl’s good graces in the 1980s. After this ordeal, I’d offer that still the best way this musical’s ever appeared on film was its iconic poster making a cameo on Patrick Bateman’s bathroom wall in American Psycho.
This Les Misérables appears with not a hint of self-awareness and betrays not for a moment that it understands itself as an artifact, nor does it care much that what it’s attempting to do in translating a stage musical to film requires something like a plan–a commensurate vision to ease the transition. For the uninitiated, Les Misérables follows the exploits of poor Jean Valjean (Jackman), who goes on the run from evil Inspector Javert (Russell Crowe) upon violating parole. (He was imprisoned for the theft of a loaf of bread to feed someone.) Jean makes good, becomes a factory owner or mayor or somesuch, and adopts Cosette (Amanda Seyfried), the daughter of dead hooker Fantine (Anne Hathaway). The French Revolution June Rebellion of 1832 happens, an event the film has a confused opinion about (it’s great and it’s terrible before they settle on “it’s romantic!”), as Cosette falls for dashing revolutionary Marius (Eddie Redmayne).
Hugo’s novel (home to the longest sentence in the world, or so I once read) deals with large questions; Hooper’s flick deals with what to do with itself once Hathaway vanishes after absolutely killing her big number (“I Dreamed a Dream,” made immortal in modern memory by Susan Boyle’s public seduction of Simon Cowell with it) around thirty minutes in. It’s like when Janet Leigh disappears from Psycho…or it would be if Leigh were the best thing in Psycho–and had Psycho been directed by an absolute hack, which leads to a conversation, of course, about how Tom Hooper has one more Oscar for directing than Hitch does, but that’s perhaps one of those rabbit holes one should just leave alone. The year he won, Hooper, incidentally, beat Darren Aronofsky, the Coen Brothers, and David Fincher. Okay, now I’m done.
Much has been made of how all the actors sang their numbers (more than fifty of them; seemed like more) live on camera into digitally-erased microphones, the better to allow the cast to craft screen performances, I suppose. The result, though, is that it’s all too clear that Crowe can’t sing and certainly can’t act at the same time he’s failing to sing well, leading to long, long, long, slow, slow, slow interludes where everyone out here feels awfully embarrassed for everyone up there. One could say the lone miracle that Les Misérables performs is making anyone feel sorry for Crowe, ever. But the bigger problem is that Hathaway is the only one who transcends Hooper’s myopic hemiagnosia–the only one who makes real emotion of the melodrama of cramped source material that has the audacity to not only introduce a new generation of characters post-intermission but also ask us to invest in a love triangle between three pretty little ciphers chirping their sorta-pretty little songs. The danger of making everything overwrought, after all, is that nobody has that kind of stamina; how Hooper makes Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter (typecast now as Mrs. Lovett) as avaricious foster parasites this flat and uninteresting is, okay, the film’s other miracle. Les Misérables is doomed to polarize the half that loved it before they saw it and the half dragged there that spent the last few hours of it surreptitiously checking the time. Just like the good old days.
After watching the HBO preview, wherein everyone gushes over the fact that the actors are singing! live!, I was afraid this would be the outcome. My fear only deepened when they previewed one of Jackman’s soliloquies, which was evidently shot inches in front of his face. I’ll probably still see it, but . . . regardless, the expectations are slightly tempered. As they were for Rent, and really, every other musical adaptation for the big screen.
One thing I would point out though, and I hate to raise the pedantic point, is that the events depicted in the movie are not the French Revolution (if you’re referring above to the one that started in 1789), but rather the June Rebellion of 1832.
This review is right on. Dreadful movie and adaptation of an awe inspiring stage production. If you have seen LesMis multiple times on stage you won’t like this. Had they really wanted to do it right, rather than get SO SO vocal talent, they would have cast real Broadway thespians who could do the songs the justice they deserve. I like Crowe and Jackman as Master and Commander and Wolverine. Not as Javert and Valjean. Horrid to say the least and fodder for those easily entertained.
Hooper has succeeded at bringing Les Miserables to the movies and the performances, all of them are first rate.All the close-ups work well, as this is not a stage presentation, but a film. The close-ups and the singing live work well together and help to create intimacy, agood thing in a film.Crowe was a good choice for Javert, he sings well and is a fine actor.As for the dismissive tone of this piece,well that is the price we all pay for freedom of speech.
What the heck, man? What did Tom Hooper do to you? All I got from this article is “I hate Tom Hooper,” not a movie review. Grow up.
Oh, and I’m sorry it made you uncomfortable. Doesn’t it suck when a movie has that kind of impact on you? *Sigh* Oh, right. Silly me. I forgot cynicism was cool.
Sounds like a musical barraged piece of crap
What did Tom Hooper ever do to me? He wasted over 2 and 1/2 hours of my life with this maudlin, boring, pretentious piece of garbage. That’s what Tom Hooper did. His camera work was amateur at best. Closeups are to be used sparingly for emphasis, not continuously for over 2 hours. As the director, the onus kind of falls on him. Although who in their right mind cast Russel Crowe and Hugh Jackman should be tied to a chair and forced to watch this until their eyes pop out and their ears implode (as I imagine someone forced to watch this might in a drastic sense of self preservation)
Strange, I had never been exposed to Les Miserables in any form before seeing this movie. I loved it. Definitely worth the time. Crowe was the weakest link for damned sure, but he was at least passable in his performance. As for the close ups, I feel they brought an intimacy with the characters while they’re going through such heart rending emotional breakdowns. This review is foolish.
I’ll be happy to share my opinion once I’ve seen the film, but for the record: I liked both The King’s Speech and The Damned United. Compelling stories and well-acted, even if they toyed with the facts more than a little bit (Ex-player and respected pundit John Giles has gone on to slate both the book and film of TDU quite heavily). A musical, though, is something else entirely… to me they’re pretty much the ultimate love-hate genre.
Except that Darren Aronofsky, the Coen Brothers, and David Fincher all suck big balls. I was mildly annoyed by “The King’s Speech” as much as the next guy, but who gives a shit about those other lame-duck auteurs? They’ve all been circle-jizzed on way more than guys even less-deserving (i.e. Sam Raimi). The point about Hitchcock was on, of course (for the most part). But let’s stop with all the Oscar-as-validation bait, shall we? Oh, and no one ever makes Sacha Baron Cohen interesting, except when he’s getting punched in the mug – which at least this movie does with reckless aplomb. That alone gives it a “thumbs up” in my book – or my hand, or whatever. A thumb up someone, somewhere. Or something.
Saying that Aronofsky, Fincher, and the Coens all sucked balls in 2010 (the year of BLACK SWAN, SOCIAL NETWORK, and TRUE GRIT) seems pretty needlessly contrarian to me.