Les Misérables

My husband and I finally went to see Les Misérables.  We both know the stage version and had heard good things about the movie, so we were looking forward to seeing it.  We were not disappointed; it's a great film, if emotionally draining.  I thought that I could keep some emotional detachment and avoid sobbing through two and a half hours of film, but it was difficult and I didn't always succeed.  Most of it is set in winter, with people wandering through the snow in bare feet and rags, and the bleakness of the setting matches the despair of the starving mobs of Paris during the student rebellion of 1832. 

The actors are film actors rather than musical theatre actors, with the exclusion of Hugh Jackman and Samantha Barks, so we weren't expecting the singing to be of Broadway theatre calibre.  That was fine because the performances mostly made up for it.  Mr. Jackman as Jean Valjean was wonderful.  Physically, it is not much of a stretch for "Wolverine"to play a character who is renowned for his strength.  Emotionally, he gives a deft and layered performance that had us in tears in several scenes.  Anne Hathaway gives a phenomenal performance as Fantine, the unwed mother who sinks into prostitution after unjustly losing her factory job.  Her singing is excellent, and the naked emotions on her face as she suffers one heart-wrenching degradation after another is so honest and real that it is hard to watch.  Samantha Barks as  Éponine, the unfortunate daughter of the thieving and heartless Thénardiers, is heart-breaking in her loneliness and unrequited love for the student, Marius.  Daniel Huttlestone gives an endearing performance as Gavroche, the child revolutionary who believes in the abilities of little people to get things done.  There were many other fine performances; my only disappointment was with Russell Crowe as the relentless Inspector Javert.  I'm not sure why Mr. Crowe's rendition wasn't as powerful as it should have been; I have nothing but admiration for his work normally.  But Javert is Jean Valjean's great adversary, a man who was born in a prison surrounded by the garbage that he believes all criminals to be, and it is his consummate belief in the sanctity of the law, without deviation and without mercy, that drives him into hunting for the escaped parolee for all those years.  My favourite Javert was played by Tony Perkins in a 1978 TV movie.  Imagine the deranged young man in Psycho playing the Inspector, and you'll have an inkling of the truly fine performance he gives.  I just checked, and the movie in on You Tube.  Check it out, if you get the chance.

The only other thing that I was not so crazy about was some of the really tight shots and fast-moving camera work.  I sometimes have a problem with nausea with today's big screens if I'm sitting too close and the camera work is jerky and moving around a lot.  I couldn't watch the second Jason Bourne film with Matt Damon for that reason.  But my husband, who has done some film and TV work, suggested that those tight shots were necessary to hide the microphone booms since the actors were singing live during the recording, so what can you do?

Go see the film, but don't go alone or with children, and take a fistful of tissues.

For the Love of Classic Movies

I love old movies.  Let me put a qualifier on that - I love good, classic movies.

There was a time in my life after I finished university but prior to finding a full-time job when I used to stay up after everyone else had gone to bed to watch the 11:30 PM Late Show.  Those were the days when the American TV networks used to program a late show of movies from the 1930's and 40's.  That's when I came to appreciate the work of some great actors:  Spencer Tracy, Myrna Loy, Clark Gable, Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Jean Harlow, to name just a very few.

Nowadays, I usually sit down in front of the TV with my bowl of instant peach oatmeal around 7:30 AM and flip to TCM  to see what old movie they're showing.  They usually program "B" movies at that time of day; most of them really deserve that label, and I'll often flick to "House Hunters" after about five minutes.

Today I saw a film with Myrna Loy, Frank Morgan (the Wizard of Oz), and Robert Montgomery.  I stayed because I had never seen this one before, and because I'm a big fan of Myrna Loy.  The bit I saw before I had to leave for work was about how Loy, an author, was unhappily in love with her married book editor, Morgan, while a newspaper reporter (Montgomery) was getting in the way.  Now, I've never seen Morgan in a romantic role before, so that was fun.  The baby-boomers might remember Montgomery as the father of Elizabeth Montgomery from the popular 1960's television show, "Bewitched," but he had a long, illustrious acting career of his own.  He was very funny playing a drunk interrupting a rendezvous between the two lovers, and quite charming being creamed in a golf game with the editor's wife.

I looked up the movie, and it's called "When Ladies Meet," made in 1933.  Please watch it, if you can; I hope to be able to catch all of it one day.  You see, I'm afraid that these actors and movies will be lost to future generations.  Even if university or college students take a film class, I doubt that they'll be showing this movie.  I've tried to expose my two daughters to classic films, and they probably know more about old movie musicals than a lot of my contemporaries.  But when I sat in on an undergraduate writing class last Fall at the university where I work, the students didn't know who Clark Gable was.  That's sad.

My Husband's Birthday Today, My Daughter's Tomorrow

Just thinking of my husband on his birthday and of my eldest daughter on her birthday tomorrow. I went into labour on the afternoon of Reid's birthday.  I was able to bake him a birthday cake, but was too far gone to make the icing.  Reid put the cake into the freezer, bought a can of icing, and we had the cake when I got back from the hospital a few days later.  Happy birthday, Reid and Kate!

Diaries Versus Blogging

It's not my intention to sound like an old fogie, sitting on the porch in my rocking chair and waving my cane around ("things were certainly different in my day"), but an expanse of years gives one the opportunity to sit back and observe the changes in a lifetime.

I'm sure people still keep diaries. They're still selling the fat little books with cheap side locks that young girls covet, although I wonder how many people get into the habit of writing regularly? But with Facebook, blogging, twittering, and other social medias that I don't even want to keep up with but no doubt are out there, diary-writing is right out in our collective faces.

Where does one draw the line? Stuff that might have made grandma blush just to write in her diary seems pretty tame compared to the soul-baring (or is that "soul-blaring?) that people are willing to do in public these days. I'm writing this blog to entertain my readers, but it's a tightrope walk deciding what to share. Let's all agree to embellish a little, shall we? Then we can always say, "You don't really believe that happened, do you?"

Cheers,
CM Spencer

Ladies Don't Fart:  The Heart of the Problem

Do you remember Kindergarten?  The smell of Play-Doh and crayons, the painting easels with big pots of primary-coloured paints, the upright piano and round floor rug for reading circle.


As I  understood it, you needed to do three things to be a success at St. Joseph’s Catholic School Kindergarten class: recite the “Hail Mary,” the “Our Father,” and be able to tie your shoelaces.  The prayers were a cinch – we said them at home as part of our nightly family sessions – but the shoelace tying was tough.

One day I thought I had it licked, even though my way was different from the teacher’s.  I got in line behind Susan S. to demonstrate my skill to the teacher, and then something terrible happened.  I was a healthy child, and I'd had a bologna and tomato sandwich for lunch.  Michael B. was standing behind me.  He pinched his nostrils shut and wailed, “I heard that, Cathy.  Ew, you stink.”

The teacher, a seven-year kindergarten veteran, leaned forward and admonished me in a prim whisper, “Ladies don’t break wind, Cathy.”

This confused me.  “Is that the same as ‘fart,’ Miss Benton?”

Michael pointed an accusing finger at me.  “Cathy just swore!”

I blushed beet red.  “I did not.”

“Did so!”

“That’s enough, Cathy and Michael.  ‘Fart’ is not a swear word, but it isn’t very nice.  Polite people say ‘break wind.’”

I bowed my head in shame.  To make matters worse, when I had shuffled my way to the front of the line to show Miss Benton my prowess, I got flustered and couldn't tie my shoelaces.

I learned a valuable lesson that day.  Ladies don't fart, unless they can do it soundlessly and with no odour.

When I became an adult lady and got married, I discovered that my husband came from a different camp, the "better out than in" school of thought.  Not that he had been raised that way.  If his mother ever heard him do it, she'd stare at him in disbelief.  "You were never raised that way," she'd say.

Many years of wedded bliss have passed.  Our bodies have aged, and so has our plumbing.  About a year ago, I started farting back in self-defence.  Especially in bed.  Maybe if I can envelope myself in a cloud of poisonous gas, it will shield me from his disgusting man-smell.  This only works if no one turns over, however.

Not that I'm  not a lady, but I'm a hell of a lot more laid back than I used to be.  I still wouldn't dream of "breaking wind" in public, but now I'm beginning to let it rip in public bathroom stalls.  And in private with my husband.

By the time I'm in my eighties, the good Lord willing, practically deaf and with everything I eat disagreeing with me, I may be farting all the time.  Maybe this is the primary reason children put their parents in old folks' homes?

Ladies Don't Fart and Other Misconceptions: A Baby-Boomer Grows Up

I was born in 1958.  Too late for the era of poodle skirts and Elvis mania and hanging out at the soda shop after the drive-in movie.  I was busy drooling and having my diapers changed.  I was in elementary school during the radical '60's, so no bra-burning or love-ins for me. 

When was I a teen-ager?  During the '70's.  The ugliest decade of them all.  Remember the midi-skirts?  Horn-rimmed glasses?  Polyester pant suits with ruffled blouses?  It wasn't pretty, my friend.  So remember that when you're doing your family planning.  Try not to give birth to children during an ugly decade.  It makes for an unattractive photo album.




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