Film Review: Les Misérables

                                                'FIGHT. DREAM. HOPE. LOVE.'

           Hey, hey! Second post in as many days; you must be getting sick of me. So, why on Earth am I here again? Well, reread the title...there you go, that's your answer. I went to see Les Misérables last night and again, didn't really want to keep quiet. Now, I'm aware that, once again, you DO NOT need me to tell you how great this film is. But I'm going to, because, well; I feel like it. For a full synopsis, cast list, etc., I am once again sending you here.

          I digress, slightly. So, I went in unfamiliar with the stage musical so every move and moment was a surprise. For that reason, I adored it. There is a great deal of 'hype' surrounding this film, and while I was watching it, there were moments when I wondered if I'd been subjected to too much of this, and my expectations were too high. In short; I wondered a couple of times whether I was enjoying it because I was enjoying it, or because I'd basically been told to.            
           I came to the conclusion that I was enjoying it for its own greatness, somewhere between not noticing that my leg had gone to sleep due to its stillness for God only knows how long, and noticing that I hadn't blinked for around the same period of time. My eyes didn't stay dry for long, I'll be honest.

www.http://collider.com/tom-hooper-les-miserables-james-bond-interview/

       
             So, getting down to the film itself, its individual elements and such - the acting is wonderful, actually, no; wonderful isn't the word. There may not be a word. Anne Hathaway was phenomenal, really, crazily phenomenal. When she sang 'I Dreamed a Dream'...wow. That's all, I can't verbalise it. Hugh Jackman was fabulous, both of these characters show desperation so well, and make you really feel it. 

            The film is the first to use live singing - it didn't pre-record the vocals and edit them, so if a character is crying, you hear the desperation and the sorrow. It's so beautiful. 

             I didn't write this review last night or this morning for one good reason: this is a film that with each passing hour, and each new moment given to thinking about it, its power just increases. I didn't realise this until some time in the night, so thought I'd give it something like 24 hours, to completely just let it fester and grow with me. That way, I could be as emphatic as my name suggests. (Though, disappointingly, not as panda-like) 

              I don't want to say too much about the plot in case anyone stumbles across this who hasn't seen it. If that's you; I urge you to see it! Please see it. I won't accept 'it's not my type of film' as an excuse; it's everyone's type of film. It's magnificent. What I will go into though, is just how empathetic I felt for every individual character throughout the film. You love the characters you're supposed to love, and hate the characters you're supposed to hate. In the end, you still feel sympathy for the ones you're supposed to hate. There are incredibly bleak times, as the name would suggest, but there are some truly funny scenes which include Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter which really do their job well in relieving the darkness of the world of the film.

http://seizetheabsurd.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/les-miserables-movie-review-symphony-of.html

                               

             Sitting here now, writing this, I just want to go and watch it again. I'd cry more, laugh more, engage more now that I know how much I love it, and why I love it so much. I've never known a film to have  almost filled the room almost two months after its (UK) release; have more than half of its audience in near violent tears, and receive a round of applause at the end. Wow doesn't cover it. Incredible nearly does. Seriously - people were sobbing; one couple had to stay behind for a while because the girl was legitimately having a breakdown. I can't cry at films in front of my family, and I couldn't hold it in. 

             The only very, very tiny and almost insignificant criticism I have, is that you don't have to sing literally every word, some more of it could have been done in normal words, but like I say; that's not relevant, and it didn't ruin it or take away from any aspect of awesome at all.

              Drop me a comment with your thoughts and opinions, are you in the minority who thought it was mediocre or poor? Or are you more fanatical about it than I have been (I didn't realise how much I loved it until I was halfway through this post and have seen the adjectives I've used for it.)

             It's still not been released in every country yet, for your country's release date, have a look here; I'm going to leave you with this, and I'm going to go and get my hands on the soundtrack so I can relive it on the way to everything. 

   

                                             

                                              Thanks for reading, you're really great! Laura

                                                                                                          xoxoxox

Flood

            Well Hi! I don't remember the last time I posted, I just remember lying to you about how I was going to tell you all the things I'm crazy about. Anyway, I wrote this piece a while ago. We were told to write 'a horror story', and I didn't feel like writing about blood, so I took a different spin on the term 'horror story'. I tried to make it really sentimental, and it's actually really close to my heart because the story of the flood behind it is true. I have also been to the place where this happened countless times, and the local people still seem to be reeling from it, and are happy to tell you all about it. It's a small, seaside town in England called Lynmouth, in Devon.

The rain started an hour ago. I can hear the river rising, and from my chair, I can almost see the top of it. There are reports on the news that we’ve so far had about a months-worth of rain, and it is showing no signs of stopping. This seems so unreal. I look at the calendar, checking the date. 15^th of August, 1952. How can it rain so heavily in the middle of the summer?

                There is no-one outside, understandably. The atmosphere is dark; I don’t just mean the mood, I mean the actual air. I think if you caught some air from outside in a jar, and held it under a lamps, you’d see dark blue and grey swirling around inside.

                The sound of the water hitting the roof and the windows is deafening. I can’t hear the television anymore; I’m not sure I want to.

                I can hear something louder than the rain coming; a roaring, angry sound and it’s coming for all of us. I can hear what sounds like walls falling – almost exploding – I want to look out of my window and make sure the village is still intact, but I can’t move from my seat.

                In seconds, I’m glad I didn’t move from my seat; the river has fought its way out of it banks, and is raging through the village, pillaging. My front wall moved away from its foundations and exposes me to the elements. The wind punches me in the gut and throws my photos from the walls. Memories lay scattered on the floor, a flurry of rain is also brought in and speckles the broken glass.

                A tear rolls down my cheek. I look to my wife who is sitting in the armchair beside me, she places her hand in mine and squeezes her eyes shut, letting a tear roll down her wrinkled cheek, mirroring mine. I look at our hands, seeing in every wrinkle and little brown spot, all of the times we laughed, cried, sang. I notice how her wedding ring is still in pristine condition; it’s so true of her character.

                The water level is rising across our living room and I can hear another onslaught coming, from further upstream. I look to my wife again; her eyes are still closed and I think she’s praying. I raise her hand to my lips and kiss is gently, one last time.

                The river rushes into what is left of our home, taking the television, the coffee table, my wife and I.   It feels like a betrayal; the river we have lived next to for the last thirty years, and have loved all of our lives is ruining us. It saw our love blossom, saw our children born, raised, married. It’s taking away everything we ever had. It can take whatever it likes; I won’t let go of Mary.

                                                                                 ***

                The next morning, when the rain had stopped, the clean-up began. Thirty-nine buildings had been destroyed, leaving thirty-four people dead. A single policeman had driven for miles in the night to get to the nearest phone, calling in reinforcements. The people who survived came out of the buildings which still stood, and began to pick up the people and buildings who didn’t. It was thought that the little seaside town had experienced over three months of rain during the night, causing devastation which would be talked about, fearfully and speculatively, for over sixty years after the event. The damage can still be seen along parts of the river, with small front walls, and steps up the side of the bank; preserving the memory of the people who were lost in the flood. 

             Drop me a comment if you liked it, or if you didn't - I changed the settings a while ago so that anyone can post comments - not just people with google+ accounts, and I'd love to hear from you.

             

            Thanks for reading, Laura!

                                           xoxoxox