As we ascend from the depths of the ocean, a murmur becomes a workman’s chant lamenting years wasted in prison, a lack of sympathy, and the disparity between the bourgeoisie and the poverty-stricken. The ocean churns, the sea water floods the base of the ship, and Jean Valjean (Hugh Jackman) – among a hundred others – strains to pull tree-trunk-like cords of rope to right the ship. Watching over is Javert (Russell Crowe), an inspector akin to Measure for Measure’s Angelo. His strict attention to law and order both vilifies and lauds him. He toes the line strictly, dismissing any empathy – even though, like Valjean, he “comes from the gutter too.”
As the storm recedes and the ship docks, Valjean’s parole begins. Nineteen winters after his crime of stealing a loaf of bread to feed his sister’s son, Valjean leaves prison, permanently marked by the nefarious stamps on his papers, forced to trek up the side of a mountain each month in order to see his archaic-version of a parole officer.
Tom Hooper’s version of Les Miserables is, at times, emotionally charged with music and positively overwhelming with vast social themes. In part, it studies the permanently-locked lower class, those destined to end up in prison because, like Valjean, their attempts to survive have delivered them there. Furthermore, their papers become their existence. The stamp of criminality essentially bars them from employment and makeshift soup kitchens. Valjean is destined to either die or commit another crime, thus entering the recidivist circuit.
With help from a benevolent Monsignor, Valjean rediscovers his faith in humanity – even if it only exists briefly throughout much of this film – and sheds his prisoner-stigma. Unfortunately, this is accomplished through breaking his parole, which draws Javert on a cross-country, cross-decade mission to recapture him.
In a film akin to the documentaries Into the Abyss and The House I Live In, Les Miserables illustrates the extent to which the decks are stacked. Valjean becomes a criminal when he steals food, and he can only shed the stigma of “criminal” by becoming, in effect, a criminal. In a more comical progression, Thenardier (Sasha Baron Cohen) and his wife, Madame Thenardier (Helena Bonham Carter) are Master and Mistress of a combination house of ill-repute, tavern, and hotel. Each guest or patron who enters is swindled in some form, but the scene is satirically playful. They pickpocket, but also charge usurious taxes, fees, and additional charges.
While clearly criminals, they are a perverse mirror of the bourgeoisie and the French government that hold that the growing, writhing, lower-lower class in check.
Moreover, Les Miserables is about children, or rather, the symbolic transformation of children. When Valjean is sent to prison in 1796, he and his kin are part of the underclass, which compels him to steal food. Their fate is unknown, but his invested attachment to Cosette (Amanda Seyfried), a young girl left behind in 1826 when her mother Fantine (Anne Hathway) dies, suggests that they suffered the same fate as those teeming with futility and hopelessness in the streets.
For both Valjean and Fantine, the byway to support children is crime. Whereas Valjean was a thief, Fantine must resort to selling her body. First, as she sells her hair, then her teeth, then she becomes a prostitute. The scene here, despite its heavy sadness, is a marvel and one of the best in the film. Hathaway’s “I Dreamed a Dream” is filled with palpable anger, sorrow, hope, and regret. Hooper’s camera is unflinching and Hathaway’s voice never breaks despite tears intermingled with moments of oxygen-starved coughing. Moreover, the scene is telling in that Fantine was employed sewing various clothing on a factory floor until her child was discovered. Since she is unwed, she becomes a signifier of the unclean. Her child becomes the burdensome mark of impropriety. While this is ironic because her co-workers hardly seem proper, it provides the opportunity to cull her from the mix, keeping any additional stigma out of their bounds.
Through Fantine’s death, Valjean comes to adopt Cosette, a piece of currency and bargaining chip for Monseiur and Madame Thenardier who had, by default, taken her in. They understand Valjean – or Lemur as he goes by in Montreuil – is wealthy now and is able to offer more than the few sous that they swindle from customers. Sardonically, their own daughter, Eponine (Samantha Barks) holds little or no value when she becomes older and stops helping them pilfer patrons. Rather, she is one of the young revolutionaries. And ten years later, she also falls in love with Marius (Eddie Redmayne), a young, passionate boy who comes from bourgeoisie stock but who fights for the underclass. Unfortunately, he is in love with Cosette.
And, here lies the downside of Les Miserables. Most of the time, it is solidly directed with emotionally-charged performances. At others, it becomes overwrought with ennui when we expect it to be the most replete with feeling. As the next revolution builds, Valjean must flee with Cosette because Javert has once again gotten close. (Here, the child gives meaning to Valjean’s life, but his life also functions as her prison.) At the same time, musical soliloquies are intermingled: Javert proclaims that he will fulfill his duty and bring Javert to justice; Marius declares his love for Cossette; the revolutionaries ramp up the charge. But, these feel very disjointed. The emotion is stunted in each performance as the scenes cut back and forth without capturing the power behind each sentiment.
And, this continues for the next forty minutes or so. The musical that starts like a powerhouse, takes a break before finishing strong. It’s almost as if the performers tired of the constant crescendo and just needed a break, like they were cried out or exhausted.
Similarly, Les Miserables fails to capitalize on the tragic irony that resides, churning, underneath its music. During the performance of “Red and Black,” two sides of the revolution are pit against each other. Marius uses his love for Cosette as fuel to fight, but he is distracted by his infatuation. His other young revolutionaries look on the blood that has spilled and the “dark history” behind them. While a love story is building. Something bigger remains unsaid. This is the definition of the class war. Marius is only able to revel in “love at first sight” and think about being with Cosette because of his family’s wealth. He was never disowned. Sure, his grandfather is miffed at him, but he wasn’t removed from the will. That which Marius fights against is that which he owns, and that which allows him to treat the revolution like a hobby. His focus is Cosette, and he can afford to have her.
On the other hand, his brooding friends have no choice but to fight. They grew up in the gutters; they cannot afford a betrothed or to have other children. This is intensified by Eponine, who is so far removed from snagging Marius that she binds her breasts and covers her hair, effectively renouncing her gender and its possibilities by fighting in the revolution.
Admittedly, Hooper didn’t write Les Miserables, but as a director, he began the film with a heavy discourse into class, privilege, and the contradictions that writhe within us all. But here, he seems to forfeit these themes in favor of relaying a love story. And while cute and saccharine, Cosette and Marius seem the least conflicted, which is a bit odd, since they – their affluence and bourgeois status — will be the targets of the next uprising. And while the film is attempting to end powerfully with the singing voices of the dead, it fails to nod to this scene’s futility. Yes, it lifts the audience’s hearts, but we began in a circuit of poverty and revolution. And, we’re still there at the end of the film, though this is hardly highlighted. Love conquers all, so long as you can afford it.
