It wasn't entirely bad. Some of the music was cool. Plus, with my activist tendencies, I started getting really excited whenever they featured the French Revolution -- too bad that kept getting pushed aside to make room for more love stories. But what was with the non-stop close-ups? The point of turning theater into a movie is to add some amazing visuals - but this was largely just a bunch of talking (or more accurately singing) heads. And if we - as the audience - aren't supposed to believe that Hugh Jackman is a child molester, then they should have done a better job of establishing that. I mean, I'm pretty sure he wasn't a ChiMo, but it's best not to leave that lingering doubt about your main character (unless of course we're talking about the movie Doubt, which is a way better example of adapting a play to cinema.)
I have no problem acknowledging that Anne Hathaway is pretty darn good. But then she dies really quickly. AND THERE'S STILL TWO HOURS OF THE FILM LEFT! You can't ask people to stick around for 120 minutes after the best part of your movie bites the dust.
The main criticism I've read about the film is that Russell Crowe really sucks. But honestly, I fail to see how he's measurably worse than most of the cast. Like, you're going to call out Crowe for having a poor singing voice when Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter have multiple musical numbers in the film? And do you really think he's worse than that inbred looking kid who seems to have taken voice lessons from Kermit the Frog?
Also, when you're promised that everyone in the film dies, make sure you actually kill everyone. Because the young couple left standing at the end? I didn't really care for them. It didn't seem fair to let them live when everyone they know and love dies, particularly since Ginger Kermit played a big role in the demise of all of his friends.
I was told that even if I don't like musicals, I would get caught up in the tragedy and cry. I fully expected to cry, actually, because I was already crying a lot that week. That was another side effects of being covered in hives - I kept crying at the smallest things. It wasn't the pain, but I felt so vulnerable and hormonal that even the stupidest, sappiest things could provoke a few tears. Here's a list of things I remember crying about while be-hived (not to be confused with beehived):
- Searching for Sugar Man
- two consecutive episodes of The Biggest Loser
- The Sessions
- The Other Dream Team
- merely thinking about a previous viewing of Beasts of the Southern Wild
- Won't Back Down (and no one should cry over Maggie Gyllenhaal unless they're asked to spell her name or endure a conversation with the woman)
- this flash mob at an unemployment office in Spain
And yeah, shut up I watched a lot of movies last week - you try thinking of another way to spend your time when you can't use your hands.
Anyway, the point is that I cried at just about everything indiscriminately, yet I did NOT cry at Les Miserables. That should say something. Heck, that should say everything. Worst Best Picture nominee of the bunch.