All Can Be Redeemed: On 1934’s Les Misérables

This is the hundred-and-seventy-sixth in a series of historical/critical essays examining the best in film from each year. Essentially, I am watching films from the beginning of cinematic history that interest me and/or hold some critical or cultural impact. My personal, living list of favorites is being created at Letterboxd, showcasing five films per year. All this being explained, what follows is an examination of my favorite 1934 film, LES MISÉRABLES, directed by Raymond Bernard.

I must immediately make a disclaimer: I have not read Victor Hugo’s 1862 novel LES MISÉRABLES, the source material for Raymond Bernard’s 1934 film adaptation of the same name. The mammoth and famed text may be in my future, but regardless, it is not necessary to understand the beauty of Bernard’s LES MISÉRABLES. Certainly, some of the context about Hugo’s intent and philosophies and how closely the 1934 movie (apparently) hews to the book’s plot could be enriching. But in viewing the nearly five-hour LES MISÉRABLES, it is immediately possible, and indeed likely, for the weight of history and the possibility for redemption that lies in all of us to wash over you.

You read that right: LES MISÉRABLES, at 281 minutes, is nearly five hours long. The film was released in three parts over the course of weeks in its initial release in its native France and that structure is still presented in home video releases since. I have viewed LES MISÉRABLES both in one sitting and over the course of five days and it’s hard to say which was more rewarding, especially since the elongated period was a revisit. In any event, the epic length is not a cheap play at recreating the time investment of the gargantuan novel, although it does allow the production to faithfully depict most of the source material’s plot points (again, apparently, as I have not read it). LES MISÉRABLES’ size allows for room to breathe and for the development of the characters in its tangled web to reach an apotheosis (or demonization in one case).

Bernard, who had directed the historical epic THE MIRACLE OF THE WOLVES (1924) in the silent era, pays special attention to period verisimilitude with impressive town-sized sets and intricate costumes. Cinematographer Jules Kruger, who also worked on Abel Gance’s masterpiece NAPOLÉON (a 1927 favorite of mine), shoots LES MISÉRABLES’ shadows and light with Romantic appeal…and with many, many Dutch angles. They serve a purpose in a lot of cases, serving to slightly disorient the viewer to illustrate the chaos and perpetration of class/literal violence, but Kruger and Bernard may have gone overboard in just how many of these kinds of shots appear in the lengthy run time. Ultimately, LES MISÉRABLES is indeed quite beautiful, but for all its impressive technique, it would not succeed if not for its tremendous performances. One might say that’s the case with every fiction film (I would not), but in this case especially, the investment in the movie’s every twist and turn and ultimate message is only made real by the exceptional soulfulness (and in that aforementioned outlier case, despicableness) of its actors.

First and foremost is the portrayer of Jean Valjean, Harry Baur. Baur was an established stage and film veteran by the time of LES MISÉRABLES (his first movie role was in 1909), but his ultimate fate as a victim of fatal Nazi torture in 1943 looms large for me in viewing his remarkable performance. With that darkness out of the way, I can address how Baur perfectly embodies a stoic redemption that serves as the model for every major character’s fate in the film. Jean Valjean has become a cultural shorthand for the personification of tyrannical victimhood, as a man sentenced to laborious prison terms for stealing a loaf of bread and subsequently trying to escape. But in Baur’s portrayal, Jean Valjean becomes powerfully real, acting as an almost supernatural cipher of goodness in a cruel world but also saddled with noticeable faults.

Baur’s most powerful scene actually occurs quite early. In the lifechanging moment when Valjean is gifted the silver he stole from/by Monseigneur Myriel (played by Henry Krauss, who in a delicious turn of fate played Valjean in the 1913 film adaptation of the novel) to avoid his arrest , Baur’s stubble-ridden face hangs in a rictus of shame as his eyes tear up in sheer appreciation for Myriel’s selfless action. It is a moment that sets the trajectory of the rest of Valjean’s life.

He may immediately afterward steal a coin from a young boy who dropped it in front of Valjean’s feet. But he rouses himself from his self-pitying moment to seek out the boy and return the coin, ultimately in vain. He will hold onto the coin until his death in remembrance of what he once was. He may engage in duplicity to hide his true identity (with the Mayor Madeleine and Monsieur Fauchelevent identities). But he uses these ruses to help others with the wealth he has accumulated in the former identity as the inventor of a profitable type of resin jewelry. It is what allows him to adopt his ultimate reason for living, Cosette, daughter of Fantine and abused ward of the Thénardiers.

He may rage against Cosette’s love for Marius Pontmercy, an aristocrat by birth but a newfound republican who rails against the monarchy; not for anything so shallow as politics, mind you, but because he threatens to disrupt the eight blissful years during which Valjean has cared for Cosette. But he ultimately sees the futility of resisting, and indeed the value of supporting, this love, and saves Marius’ life during The June Revolution of 1832. The union between his adopted daughter and the young man is what allows him to pass on peacefully, leaving behind much more good than bad.

Valjean is humble in his approximation of his impact on the world, almost to a fault as he recounts to Marius his secret that he has not even divulged to Cosette. But Marius’ immediate acceptance of his father-in-law’s past echoes the start of this whole story. Myriel saw more than the convict in Valjean, and of course, the “crime” that started everything never deserved the punishment anyways. Jean Valjean is a real human and he makes his choice to be redeemed, not because his original sin is so terrible, but because he channels the innate selfishness we have in all of us into something selfless; importantly, imperfectly.

Baur communicates these themes with a remarkable stoicism. It’s not that his Valjean never gets roused, but the matter-of-fact, subdued, and largely non-verbal way he goes about many moments is soul-stirring. It represents the true aspect of charity that belongs to the Catholic faith of his template, Myriel. To my much more differently inclined mind, Baur’s demeanor in, for example, the moment where he rescues Cosette from her terrible guardians is almost Zen Buddhist in its resolute power. Other moments reinforce an almost mythological aspect to Valjean’s character, as a man with super-strength who can lift the town hall’s supporting statue in the opening moment of the film, who can rescue a man trapped under a cart, and who can fight off a whole gang of selfish thieves. With wigs, sure, but also subtle yet consistent changes in mien, Baur also powerfully communicates the passage of time on a man with a remarkable past, up until the final moment where his actions have led him to a deathbed flanked by Cosette, his unforeseen loved one, and her own future, Marius.

The dichotomy of this redemption is represented by a so-far-unmentioned character, Inspector Javert. Javert is played by Charles Vanel, who accumulated an incredible number of credits with directors such as Alfred Hitchcock, Costa-Gavras, Henri-Georges Clouzot, and more into the 1980s. The dutiful determination of the bulldog cop in getting his man (Jean Valjean, of course) in spite of almost and then more than a decade since the convict’s disappearance could be easily and simply villainized. But in my eyes, Javert is a Judas-like figure; again, this could be framed in a way that means pure traitorous evil, but the significance of Judas is Christ’s own forgiveness of the disciple’s actions (gosh, this is getting really religious for an atheist writer, huh?).

Let me put it in an obscure pop culture context: Javert is like Barry Morse’s Lieutenant Philip Gerard on the seminal drama series THE FUGITIVE (1963–1967), which I happen to be watching at the same time I’ve revisited LES MISÉRABLES for this piece. In that show, Gerard proclaims multiple times that it doesn’t matter if he thinks its titular outlaw, Richard Kimble (David Janssen), is guilty or not; it’s his duty to retrieve a man wanted by the law. This portrayal is certainly of a kind with Javert in this adaptation, so much so that I wonder if the creator of THE FUGITIVE, Roy Huggins, had the novel in mind when creating his show.

In any event, Javert has two run-ins with Valjean that ends in the detective’s ostensible defeat and the “criminal” getting away, one of which involves Mayor Madeleine’s reveal of his true identity to save a simple peasant mistaken for Jean Valjean from a life in prison (another great example of the real Valjean’s selflessness). But Valjean has his own forgiveness moment when he’s tasked with executing the spy Javert during The June Revolution. Valjean lets Javert go and swears he will come along with him if he (Valjean) survives, which he does after carrying the injured Marius through the sewers. But upon arriving at Valjean’s home, Javert slowly walks away from the home, deciding once and for all to leave the man alone. A cut to Paris’ police headquarters reveals that Javert has killed himself by drowning in the Seine River. Javert left a note: for redemption of willfully letting a convict go free, he must take his own life. This is his version of sacrifice.

Like Baur, Vanel plays his obsessive police inspector with a subdued approach that understates the fieriness of the character’s beliefs. But the devil is in the details, as Vanel’s eyes dart from side to side in moments where his character subtly doubts his determination and his clear respect for Valjean’s strength of character flares up. Striking an imposing figure with his upright frame, ever-present stick/club, and manicured sideburns, Vanel gives small yet important glimpses into the turmoil inside Javert, who has apparently always believed in a binary right and wrong, but which ultimately leads to him taking his own life in the face of a moral grey area.

That moral grey area comes through in LES MISÉRABLES’ treatment of its real central villains, the Thénardiers. Played by Charles Dullin and Marguerite Moreno, these innkeepers are entrusted with Fantine’s daughter Cosette so that the woman forsaken by her lover can earn enough money to support her. By the way, Fantine, played by soprano singer Florelle, has a sort of redemption moment, but it could be more accurately described as a redemptive moment for potential ignorance from the characters who surround her as well as viewers. Her turn to prostitution after being fired from Valjean’s firm (a circumstance he was not aware of and which leads to his extreme support of Fantine and Cosette) follows a typical “fallen woman” arc. And honestly, Florelle is not one of the stronger performers in the film. But the obvious mistreatment of the woman, from the predatory seducer who impregnated her to the manager of Valjean’s manufacturing to a contemptible man on the street, engenders clear sympathy. It’s kind of an over-the-top procession of unfortunate events, but its severity, all the way up to Fantine’s pitiful death, could lead one to consider the circumstances of those on the margins of our society.

In any event, the moral grey area isn’t really applicable to Fantine, who is clearly depicted as a sympathetic victim, and it really isn’t to the Thénardiers themselves. They are much more the cartoonish villains than Javert, always scheming to extort first Fantine out of as much money as possible then Valjean in his Fauchelevent identity when he doesn’t recognize them. By this later period, they no longer own their inn and live in even deeper squalor in Paris. But their three children have also grown: Éponine, Azelma, and Gavroche. The girls receive preferential treatment over the mistreated foster child in the earlier parts of LES MISÉRABLES, but it’s made very clear now that Valjean’s choice of relative righteousness has led him to success, while the Thénardiers’ grasping has plunged them deeper into the abyss. They end up arrested after their gang’s assault of Valjean fails and their lack of redemption seems to paint their circumstances as the result of their desire to change their station.

It almost reads like a demonization of the poor, as in the first parts especially they aspire to the finer things like expensive coats and exquisite dolls for their girls. With Dullin’s hunched over pose and Moreno’s “shrewish” badgering of Cosette, they cut typical figures of greed. But the important aspect of the Thénardiers’ depiction is their lack of ability to make a choice to rise above, unlike Valjean. And there may be a kind of redemption in the actions of their children.

Azelma, played by Denise Mellot, is a passive character and Mellot’s forgettable performance echoes that. She just simply isn’t given much to do. But Éponine, portrayed by the great Orane Demazis, and Gavroche, given plucky life by Émile Genevois, find greater contributions to good to outweigh the cosmic harm of their parents’ actions. Demazis had acted in the first two films of the Marseille Trilogy, MARIUS (1931) and FANNY (1932), and also appeared in Marcel Pagnol’s great ANGÈLE in 1934. Her character has a smaller part in LES MISÉRABLES than in those movies, but Éponine factors greatly into the ultimate reunion of Cosette and Marius. The latter lives in the same hovel as the Thénardiers and Éponine has fallen in love with him.

But when Cosette and Valjean’s housekeeper leaves a letter for Marius, telling him to reunite with Cosette because her father has rethought his antagonism, Éponine replaces it with a letter telling him to come to the ABC club (the revolutionary group which starts the June Revolution). This is right in line with the behavior of her parents, even more active of a betrayal than her passive assistance in luring Valjean into a trap. But Éponine doesn’t just wait for Marius to come back and sneaks into the fray disguised as a man. When she sees Marius about to be shot, she puts her hand over the barrel as it fires in one of LES MISÉRABLES’ most viscerally violent moments. She’s also been struck a fatal blow in the chest and dies in Marius’ arms, having saved his life and given him Cosette’s letter. Her familial redemption lies in death like her brother. Demazis doesn’t have the same kind of naturalness to be found in the aforementioned contemporary work of hers, but the frenzy with which she seeks Marius and her ultimate calm in her dying moments are certainly affecting.

Gavroche, who is only about ten in this part of the film, is much less involved with his family than his sisters. Sure, he loiters about the house in which they live, but as he says to Marius and Éponine, he prefers the streets and actively attempts to subvert his parents plans. He has a fiery revolutionary spirit, proudly proclaims republican sentiments, and actively participates in the fighting. When he ventures out between the front lines of military and revolutionaries to pick up ammunition, he proudly sings out a satirical song and scampers about in almost full view of riflemen. His luck runs out, however, and the young man, really a child, is killed in the street.

Gavroche’s death is one of the saddest moments in a film full of sad moments. Genevois’ performance is full of life and he gets many juicy and humorous lines in a film which often really needs some comic relief. There’s also something profound to witnessing his growing up, which is tragically cut short, even though we never see him in the earlier parts of LES MISÉRABLES; Thénardier just mentions they have an 18-month-old upstairs. But Gavroche’s place in the family, which he willingly excavates himself from at such a young age and who is compellingly portrayed with a maturity far beyond the character’s age by Genevois, complements Éponine’s ultimate sacrifice in showing that greed and selfishness need not be hereditary.

Two other important characters have only been mentioned peripherally and it’s because they don’t really need to achieve redemption within the scope of LES MISÉRABLES’ concern, at least. Cosette is portrayed with an innocent purity first by Gaby Triquet as a child and then Josseline Gaël as an adult. She is the pleasantness ideal, somehow untainted by the Thénardiers even though she lived with them until age eight. Cosette isn’t nearly as fleshed out as the other characters, but as a representation of goodness, she serves well. Marius, on the other hand, has a bit more going on. He is played by Jean Servais, who looks strikingly modern in his appearance, from hair to a face that looks like it could have seen an iPhone. Servais’ performance is also relatively naturalistic and believable in its depiction of a rash and idealistic young man in love.

In any event, Marius’ turn from aristocracy and his grandfather Gillenormand (Max Dearly) maybe represents Hugo’s own transition from royalism to republicanism, but a simple reading of inspired rebellion is complicated by the ending’s reintegration of Marius into his grandfather’s world and support. In a way, this represents Marius’ “redemption,” at least in the eyes of Gillenormand. And indeed, it facilitates a presumably happy ending for Cosette and Marius. But there is a lingering question of the streets once full of Marius’ dead comrades, already cleaned up and forgotten. Is LES MISÉRABLES illustrating the futility of revolution or, intentionally or not, simply showing Marius’ own shifting priorities in a life with a loved one? Ultimately, neither Cosette or Marius are shown to need a major redemption, but their supportive presence as Valjean gives his dying monologue (Baur gives the best death scene in a film full of them) illustrates the potential of a new generation, itself a sort of redemption of the mistakes of the previous.

I’ve clearly paid little attention to the filmic language Bernard and Co. employ in LES MISÉRABLES, besides an early mention of its standout aesthetic ideals. That’s partly because, as mentioned, the performances stir the soul in such a unique way. But it’s also because, Dutch angles notwithstanding, Bernard adopts an often invisible Classical Hollywood filmmaking mode to carry the story. There are beautiful moments of artifice in set design and lighting, but they don’t show up the faces, expressions, and body language of the film’s actors.

Ultimately, the impact of LES MISÉRABLES’ redemptive apotheoses are supported by an array of cinematic techniques, source material themes, and naturalistic performances. Its massive length is made possible by a number of drawn-out and quiet moments, but the minutiae of its slower scenes embed the viewer in its expansive world and invests them in the characters’ plights. As exemplified by Harry Baur as Jean Valjean, those characters are powerfully led through redemptive arcs that show a better way of living in any setting, not just 1820s and ’30s France. After all, we still live in a dark and chaotic world in need of forgiveness and selflessness. LES MISÉRABLES, for all its visible cynical qualities, makes this argument at an impressive and moving scale and intensity.