Miserable No Longer...
	We were in the doghouse again. We used to make a point of forgetting anniversaries. We operated on the axiom that the less you appear to care, the more power in the relationship you have, the more hand. Unfortunately, by the eighth month, they figure if you're still around you really do care, and there goes your hand. Now you just look like an insensitive bastard. We needed to make it up to the more romantic partner. We needed to do something a little sentimental, maybe even a little mawkish. We agreed to take them to see Les Miserables. Sure. Drama geeks everywhere love it. Costume designers climax at the thought of it. The line in the theater would be long and filled with people who had obviously loved The Bridges of Madison County, but felt it couldn't compare with the book. Perfect. What we weren't expecting was for it to be pretty damn good. The story itself is truly great, in the sense that it is about the fundamental nature of humans: our need for redemption, our tendency to hate in others what we hate most in ourselves, and our infinite capacity to be: (a) a source of hope and love to those around us; or (b) a total dickhead. Liam Neeson is that rarest of things, an actor that has never been even slightly bad in anything, no matter how bad the movie. And we know what we're talking about: we've seen Next of Kin. Geoffrey Rush plays the hounding police inspector a little too flatly; compounding the problem is the fact that Rush looks uncannily like Fran Liebowitz, particularly in that scene where he snorts snuff off the back of his hand. Like Studio 54 on Funny Hat Night. (A minor distraction: Why in the name of SAG do American actors put on British accents to play French people?! And why are they such consistently bad, off-and-on accents? And how come, in these "English" ensembles, the idiots and the criminals talk with a Scottish accent?) Anyway, say this about Les Miz: it ain't no Man In The Iron Mask. It's miles better, and there's no Leonardo. We compare the two because one thing both films do have in common is their depiction of the French people's astonishing ability and willingness to screw each other over. France, that nation of contradictions: wine, romance, Jerry Lewis, and a sword up the sphincter. But speaking of romance, the movie definitely did the trick. We're starting to see this "sensitivity" thing in a whole new light. Vive le Hand! Gadget Girl	Geoffrey Rush plays a crazed sea captain only slightly less well than he does a crazed pianist. We'd like to see him take on the roll of the crazed Mothra in the inevitable Godzilla II. Who do you think should play Mothra?