Retro Rants: Les Miserables

Omlette Du Fromage.

You know, I somehow managed to escape both highschool and college without having to read this glorified doorstop.

Oh, what was that?

Sorry, your jaw dropping onto the floor at that statement startled me. Anyway, I digress.

Having been blessed with not having this novel forced upon me by the powers that be I was blissfully unaware of what awaited me when I strolled into a movie theater in 2012 with a couple of friends and an extra-large drink.  What followed was nearly three hours of confounded cynicism as I realized that Russell Crow can’t sing for shit and that my bladder was in serious danger of exploding as I tried to endure the totality of what was basically my generation’s version of Titanic.

“Oh, no, a tale of revolutionary France? I’m sure THIS won’t end in poignant tragedy!”

(it does)

So, no, dear reader, I didn’t like the movie.

Or the musical as it turns out.

But what about the book?

Well, this may surprise you, dear reader but the book utterly failed to butter my croissant just as much as the live adaptations. Perhaps less so, if that is at all possible.

I find myself perplexed in truth.

I don’t know that I’ve ever had this happen before, but I think I may actually find the live adaptations so much more preferrable specifically because they cut out so much of the story. I find Les Mis to be rather bloated. Yes it’s a classic and people were practically swooning over “Egalite, Liberte, Fraternite” back in the day but while a tale concerning social inequality, love, sacrifice, and the indomitable nature of the human spirit *should* all but guarantee a place of honor upon my bookshelf I find Les Miserables to be just that: miserable.

Maybe I just had a bad translation, but this book was a slog to read through which I find doubly concerning as I was eager to read it! I was eager to embrace the hype and get on the bandwagon but nope, fuck that.

The British were right on this one, what can I say?

Perhaps its my distaste for this time period, dear reader, that is poisoning what others have assured me is a near-perfect novel, but I just can’t swing it.

The book is long, the story dull, and while people tout this as being artistic I find it best summarized as “people suck; if they’re French they’re worse.”

I mean no one hates the French quite like the French so maybe this was Victor Hugo’s self-flagellation for being on the losing side of Agincourt or something. I dunno.

What I do know is I can’t in good conscience recommend you pick this one up for any other reason than to use as a paper weight, and that saddens me.

Maybe some day I’ll find a copy that lights that internal spark and lets me enjoy this story as so many have done before, but, unfortunately, that day is not today.

There are plenty of wonderful works of fiction written by French authors but as far as I’m concerned….this ain’t one of ‘em.