Les Misérables is a very old book, written to a very old political context. How appropriate, then, that it is still exactly the thing we need to hear.
John Milton’s epic poem Paradise Lost is as rich as it is eloquent. The poetry is beautiful, but it’s also packed with theological meat at every turn. The particular focus is hard to miss: arrogance is deadly.
BBC has a thing for adapting classical stories. British culture generally speaking does too, and understandably so – Jane Austen’s wit sounds much more refined with an English accent. But beyond the curious oddity of English actors playing Russian characters who speak French, this adaptation, perhaps like its source material, is something of a mixed bag.
It’s one of the most respected pieces of classic literature in the world. It’s one of the most successful broadway plays of all-time. And now it’s arguably the best film musical this side of 1950: Les Miserables. That’s for many reasons. The music is incredible, and the film was revolutionary by having barely ten lines of spoken word throughout the film, with characters speaking more than 90% of the time in song. But more importantly, and most especially for our purposes, it’s because the story takes a very Theistic and ultimately Christian perspective on life.
There have been many interpretations (especially in films) of perhaps the most widely known horror figure and the purely evil atrocities he leaves in his wake. In several versions of the vampire legend, Dracula seems to be the focal point of the story, and his enemies or victims are just clumsily incorporated as though they were an afterthought, leaving little to no room for any degree of convincing character development. Read More
You’re sneaking down an alley on a cold winter night, buttoning up your coat to shield yourself from the bitter wind. You keep looking behind you, paranoid that someone you know might follow you. Your shady friend meets you. You give the cash, he gives you the drugs. You walk back to your house, still looking behind you, paranoid, every few steps. As your conscience begins to beat incessantly on the door of your mind, you insist: “This isn’t me. This is someone else. It’s completely different.”