I walked out of the cinema after watching Les Misérables with two thoughts in my head:
Hugh Jackman really committed to the suffering; and
I desperately needed subtitles — not the Mandarin ones Cathay likes to bless us with, but the actual song lyrics.
Because look, I’m not blaming the cast. They sang their lungs out. They enunciated. They emoted. But once the orchestra swelled and the sound mixing went full epic-mode, half the consonants just packed their bags and left the theatre. I could feel the emotion, but sometimes the words flew past like a runaway train. Very ironic for a musical — the one genre where words literally matter.
And like most Singaporeans who grew up reading English subtitles for everything, I automatically looked down at the screen… only to realise, once again, it was all in Mandarin. Lovely for those who are fluent; completely useless for the rest of us who are trying to figure out — in the dark — why the French people are perpetually angry and singing about it.
So there I was, watching a sweeping, award-scented Hollywood musical while mentally guessing lyrics the way aunties guess 4D numbers. Not ideal. But even with that handicap, something about the film lingered. The grief. The longing. The way every character felt squeezed by a world too cruel for someone with a conscience.
Suffering Across Time and Space
Victor Hugo’s tale is over 150 years old, but the suffering on display is timeless. Watching Fantine, the young mother forced into desperate choices, I couldn’t help but think of Ibu Mertuaku’s Rohani. Both women are trapped by social structures and expectations: Fantine by 19th-century French industrial society, Rohani by Malay aristocratic pressures in 1960s Malaya. Their sacrifices are silent but deafening, and their suffering becomes a mirror for the audience to examine injustice.
Fantine’s slide into poverty feels painfully familiar in Southeast Asia. Though we like to think of ourselves as a modern, thriving region, inequality and social judgement are everywhere — the kampung whispers, the extended family gossip, the systemic barriers to women who have little choice but to provide for themselves and their children. Watching Fantine hawk her hair and teeth in the red-light district, I thought of the old kampung stories my grandmother told, where women worked multiple jobs, bore heavy burdens, and yet were rarely afforded dignity or compassion. The theatre of hardship is universal; the songs merely amplify it.
Revolution and the Struggle for Justice
While Fantine represents personal suffering, the Parisian students represent collective frustration — the eternal fight against injustice. Marius, Enjolras, and the rest may be overdramatic (musicals do that), but there’s something undeniably captivating about seeing people rise for a cause. As a Singaporean, the barricade scenes felt both thrilling and distant. Our own streets rarely see this kind of visible rebellion, yet the essence of societal frustration — poverty, inequality, unaccountable authority — remains.
It’s easy to forget that while we’re bingeing on musicals, real people are negotiating their dignity in quiet ways. Les Misérables reminds us that history repeats itself, even if our theatres and cinemas change. The students’ barricades are less about the weapons and more about collective courage — something we, in Southeast Asia, may recognise more subtly in stories of community resistance, or in folklore where villagers band together to challenge a tyrant or corrupt official.
Women, Poverty, and Marriage
Fantine’s story is also a meditation on the plight of women in restrictive societies. She suffers for loving and bearing a child outside wedlock, which strikes a chord in Southeast Asia, where marital laws still carry echoes of permanence and judgement. For instance, in the Philippines, divorce doesn’t exist; only annulment is available. Women can be trapped in marriages, just as Fantine is trapped by her social situation. Éponine, too, represents a different kind of female suffering — unrequited love and social invisibility. Both characters show how women’s worth is often measured by obedience, chastity, and proximity to male validation.
Here, we often interpret these struggles through our cultural lens. A Singaporean audience might sympathise with Fantine’s sacrifice but judge her moral failings less harshly than 19th-century French society. Éponine, meanwhile, may seem almost tragicomic, a reflection of the quiet, overlooked women we know — those who give everything, ask for nothing, and yet carry stories heavier than most men would understand.
Sound, Lyrics, and the Singaporean Cinemagoer
Returning to my initial gripe: the sound mix. Watching Les Misérables in Singapore, with Mandarin subtitles, was like eating laksa without the spice. You know the dish is meant to be fiery, complex, and layered — but your senses aren’t getting the full experience. It’s particularly cruel for musicals, where words are as crucial as melody. Hugh Jackman’s Valjean is gripping, Russell Crowe’s Javert is imposing, and Anne Hathaway’s Fantine is heartbreaking — yet I sometimes felt like I was catching only fragments of the story, like overhearing a conversation on the MRT when everyone’s speaking at once.
It made me think about accessibility. Perhaps in 2014, distributors assume Mandarin subtitles are enough for Singapore, but for musicals, lyrics aren’t decorative — they’re narrative. Every “I Dreamed a Dream” or “Bring Him Home” carries essential information about suffering, moral struggle, and character motivation. Missing half the words is like skipping a verse in the Qur’an or a stanza in a pantun — the essence remains, but the beauty and nuance are lost.
Comparisons Across Media: Les Misérables and Ibu Mertuaku
The emotional resonance of Fantine and Éponine reminded me constantly of Ibu Mertuaku’s Rohani. Both films explore sacrifice in a rigidly classed society. Fantine’s efforts to provide for Cosette echo Rohani’s struggles within her marriage and social standing. Both women endure suffering quietly, without public recognition, yet their lives illuminate systemic cruelty. Watching these stories side by side — albeit in different times, languages, and media — reveals how certain human experiences transcend context: women bearing burdens imposed by society, children caught in their parents’ misfortunes, and men confronted with moral choices that can’t be ignored.
Meanwhile, the Thénardiers, like Ibu Mertuaku’s antagonists, remind us that social cruelty often has a personal face: greed, pettiness, and self-interest. Villainy is banal, not epic. The Thénardiers’ petty cruelties against Cosette reflect countless local stories of families prioritising wealth and appearance over empathy. In my kampung, I heard tales of relatives scheming for land, dowries, and inheritance — a reminder that social injustice often starts at home.
Sacrifice, Redemption, and Hope
Perhaps the most moving aspect of Les Misérables is the sense that even in the face of systemic cruelty, individuals can act with immense moral courage. Valjean’s decisions — saving Marius, protecting Cosette, sparing Javert — show the possibility of redemption in a world that doesn’t guarantee fairness. Singaporeans might interpret these gestures differently. In a society focused on meritocracy, efficiency, and order, Valjean’s moral compass can feel almost naive. Yet, it’s precisely this idealism that makes the story endure: hope isn’t just about revolution; it’s about quiet, relentless ethical persistence.
The musical also challenges our understanding of suffering. Fantine and Éponine endure not just physical or financial hardship, but social and moral invisibility. Their pain isn’t glamorous, yet the music makes it hauntingly beautiful — the dissonance between beauty and suffering intensifies our empathy. It’s an experience that resonates for anyone who has ever felt unseen, unheard, or undervalued.
Southeast Asian Reflections
Watching Les Misérables through a Southeast Asian lens adds layers of complexity. We understand the hierarchy of suffering differently. The privileged may pity Fantine, but those who have experienced poverty recognise the harsh pragmatism in her choices. Éponine’s longing is familiar to anyone who has watched someone silently sacrifice for another. And the societal constraints on women, while European in setting, echo familiar restrictions across our region — where family, tradition, and moral judgement shape the contours of women’s lives.
Moreover, the musical’s revolutionary energy feels slightly foreign, yet the lessons are universal. Collective action, empathy for the oppressed, and moral courage resonate across cultures, even if the means of expression differ. For audiences accustomed to subtler forms of protest — kampung stories, folktales, or quiet advocacy — the barricades of Paris still sing a familiar tune: the human desire for justice never truly fades.
Final Thoughts
By the time the final notes of “Do You Hear the People Sing?” rang out, I felt emotionally spent but enriched. Les Misérables is more than spectacle; it’s a meditation on human resilience, injustice, and the redemptive power of compassion. Even with the sound mix conspiring against me and the Mandarin subtitles offering little help, the film managed to communicate the universality of suffering, the potency of moral courage, and the endurance of hope.
And yes, Singaporeans, we may squirm a little when the lyrics disappear under orchestral drama, but isn’t that just like life? We navigate, guess, stumble — yet beauty, truth, and meaning can still shine through, sometimes faintly, sometimes blindingly bright.
So if you ever find yourself in a Cathay Cineplex, clutching your Mandarin subtitles while trying to lip-read Hugh Jackman, remember: the pain, the longing, and the human spirit transcend language. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll come out humming I Dreamed a Dream — even if you’re not entirely sure of all the words.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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