In the Penguin reprint of Victor Hugo's sprawling 19th century novel Les Miserables, the introduction declares that it is "one of the greatest books of all time: Les Miserables, with its depth of vision and underlying truth, its moments of lyrical quality and its moving compassion, is a novel of towering stature, one of the greatest works of western literature, a melodrama that is also a morality and a social document embracing a wider field than any other novel of its time, conceived on the scale of War and Peace but more ambitious."

"Ambitious" is the key word. Like War and Peace and Moby Dick, Les Miserables is a vast tome. Hugo's opus is more than 1000 pages long and digresses constantly from its simple tale concerning a petty thief pursued over decades by a relentless policeman into political and moral invectives; it even includes a detailed account of the Battle of Waterloo. It is these digressions that make the novel great. The melodrama is played out on a vast social and political canvas that not only gives power to the story but also creates a perfect historical reality.

"Ambitious" is also a key word for filmmakers who see great cornerstones of literature as Mount Everests to be conquered. Climb the mountain face of Les Miserables, War and Peace, or Moby Dick and plant the flag of Columbia, MGM, or Fox on the summit. Proof positive that Hollywood can tame even the most ungainly of literary artifacts. Beyond the merits of narrative, this is at least one reason why so many attempts have been made to bring these works to the screen. In almost all cases, all the attempts have been failures.

Tackling Les Miserables this time around is Oscar-winning director Bille August and screenwriter Rafael Yglesias. The result is a pared down version of Hugo's tale, lacking either the splendor of von Sternberg's 1935 version or the life force of the mammoth Broadway musical. August's version is enclosed, stifling, and bleak. The pageantry of the piece is thrown away for shots of actors in shadowy doorways.

Some beautiful touches sneak through, however, August conveys the thief Valjean's (Liam Neeson) concern for the dying innocent Fantine (Uma Thurman) with quick shots of his hand on her shoulders; we see him lifting her, touching her, cutting bread for her. And August introduces Fantine's daughter Cosette (Claire Danes), whom Valjean vows to care for, in a marvelous way, by showing her eyes peeking through a peephole at a convent, looking at the real world of Paris outside.

Given the difficulty the actors face in having to invest much in their characters that is not conveyed by the script or direction, Danes comes off best in what amounts to little more than a retread of her William Shakespeare's Romeo + Juliet heroine. Thurman, however, is totally wasted, saddled with a character who seems already dead, even before she contracts her lethal pneumonia. But as the stiff and dogged Inspector Javert, who follows Valjean throughout the years in dogged pursuit for Valjean's youthful desperation of stealing a loaf of bread, Geoffrey Rush comes off as the creepy worst. Framed in darkness and scowling in distaste, you half expect Javert to end up cowering in an asylum in a straightjacket. In contrast, Neeson is all goodness and light. But an hour into the film, his self-absorbed holiness becomes annoying.

On the whole, the film is dark, dreary, and self-important. And the purple dialogue doesn't help. Without an ounce of irony, lines like "I order you to forgive yourself," "Tomorrow we have to fight; we have to restore the Republic," and the inevitable "To the barricades!" easily elicit chuckles.



Why ask why?