I've always maintained that I do not like the theatrical Les Miserables. The book is fantastic, a monstrously bonkers lifetime work of genius, and Victor Hugo wrote like 15 monstrously bonkers lifetime works of genius. You're a daunting man, VH. My inner life pales to yours.
So anyway, "I don't like Les Mis. Sors."
I've watched the trailer for the movie about 57 times. Around that. And on Sunday The Mom asked if I wanted to shotgun seats with her at the traveling production of it playing this week at the Cadillac, and I was all, sure I got nothing better to do on Tuesday.
Do you know why I don't like Les Mis? It's not because it's terrible. It's because it's fucking brilliant. I just ran the emotional fucking gauntlet for a solid three fucking hours. I am angry. I am sad. I love everyone. I hate everyone. I miss people I've lost, I'm thankful for those I have...
I cannot afford to lose all those tears, I have a goddamn cold right now. Tears are for hydrating and healing my insides. Do you understand how much water I have to drink to make up for this?
Dicks. All of you are dicks. How is it that someone so incredibly wretched in the novel comes across so beautifully on stage? Eponine is a shitbitch. Shit. Bitch. I blame "On My Own." Oh, how I hate you, "On My Own."
AND. Fuck France. This never occurred to me until recently, and by recently I mean as I started typing this sentence: I seriously love some mainstream 19th C French Lit (Who am I. Is that a real thing that I just wrote. These are not questions, they are factual statements regarding severe disorientation and how much of a prat I am) like Three Musketeers (ridicule all you want, I love it I love it I love it) and The Red and the Black and Mademoiselle de Maupin (forgive me) and Les Misefuckinrables.
That's what happens when you get too rad, France. Your descendants are douchebags. We're dealing with that same curse in the US.
Right now I am watching every version of Enjolras I can find on the Youtubes because in my youth (before I started just saying I didn't like Les Mis for fear of bursting into tears), I fantasized he did not die bravely but pulled a Purple Rose of Cairo and professed his love for me in song, stepped off the stage to take me away and we traveled around the world being super revolutionary and then we went to Ireland. Typing that, I realize that basically all of my adolescent fantasies pretty much ended the same exact way.
This fantasy was not fulfilled during tonight's production, so keep your fingers crossed for the film (just give me this and I will never ask for anything else). I have no idea who is playing Enjolras, but Dude Better Be Rad.
I'm going to go pop some Airborne tablets and pray this cold goes away before Saturday, because I'm singing in a Violent Femmes cover band for a fundraiser.