Les Contented

                                                                          

In 1862 Victor Hugo wrote a story about an ordinary guy with a cool name who is sent to prison for a minor crime but turns into a bad guy while serving his sentence.  When he is released from prison a couple of decades later, he remains a bad guy until he discovers religion and then becomes a really good guy. Surprisingly, it took Hugo 365 chapters to tell the same tale that some rappers belt out in three minutes.  Unsurprisingly, after writing all those words he came to the conclusion that less is more and scrawled The Miserable Ones on the title page.

In the late 1970s the Tunisian lyricist Alain Boublil read Hugo’s book, and somewhere between Chapter 178 (Pestilence and Pox) and Chapter 301 (Fresh Blood in the Sewers), made the obvious connection, exclaimed “musical!” and the rest is dramatic history.

By the 1990s Hollywood came calling and after a couple of attempts to adapt it to the big screen, finally realized, duh, let’s get the same guy who won an Oscar about a staid stuttering king.  If he could turn a five minute radio speech into a Beethoven backed, cinematic pièce de résistance, then surely he could do something special with few already famous songs.

Universal Pictures opened its coffers, Tom Hooper did his thing, and the whole package was gift wrapped for the world to see on Christmas day.

I spent the holiday at my parents’ house in Florida.  By late Christmas afternoon the kids had already broken half of Santa’s electronic presents and with a dazed, “It’s mine, all mine!” look were starting to eye the glitter-glue heavy arts and craft boxes.  My mom, tired of her “Never say no Nana” role, eyed  her new white carpet and decided it was the perfect time to put on her, “I was there for opening night” face to take my sister-in-law and me to the local multiplex.

I was the first one in the car.

Les Miserables is the kind of movie I thoroughly enjoy:  Star filled, over-the-top spectacle, with no room for interpretation since the director pounds every feeling he wants you to feel with the subtlety of a melodious jackhammer. 

A mere three hours after we settled into our seats, the movie ended, and along with all the other South Florida retirees and Broadway groupies who had jammed the theater with us, we paraded through the parking lot ironically singing “Can You Hear the People Singing?” interspersed with cries of “Viva le France!”

I love musicals. No, that’s not right, I am inspired by musicals.  I called my father “Papa” for a month after seeing Yentl.  West Side Story?  I tried to persuade the front office of the New York Jets football team that 90,000 fans snapping their fingers in unison would strike terror into the hearts of opponents.  The Sound of Music?  Don’t get me started.

But, the morning after seeing Les Miserables I was stumped. I’m inspired, but am not sure what direction to go with it.   What can I harp on? The obvious choice is religion, but I’m already Catholic.  I wouldn’t mind joining a just revolution. Occupy Wall Street crosses my mind, but to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what that’s even about. A revolution against stock brokers? Eah.  Prison’s too cushy these days and all the other stuff is so illegal it would probably jeopardize my job. 

I’m humming “I Have a Dream” but am not sure what it is.  Putting an extra $100 a month in my 401k?

Oh, Victor Hugo, with your 365 chapters describing every kind of human suffering a body can know.  A noble poet who held a mirror up to society with the hope that his readers would be so disgusted by what they saw, kindness and empathy would triumph.

Oh, Tunisian lyricist, that music, those songs! Those songs.

Oh, Anne Hathaway, with your emaciated body and hollowed out eyes, not to mention that adorable Halle Berry haircut.

By my fourth cup of coffee, I’ve given up trying to spin this movie into anything I can morph into my own life.

I spend the last day of my vacation by the pool making beaded necklaces with my little nieces and nephew.  The patio table is a jumble of brightly colored string and bags of sparkling plastic orbs to choose from.  We are each lost in thought, creating our individual little masterpieces. Under a perfect Florida sun, I am the only one to break the silence, occasionally whispering Les Contentment, Les Lucky.