Well here we are at the most talked about film of the year. It is not deep. It is not profound. Those that would complain about that have missed the point. To be deep and profound would have ruined the magic of a considerably charming film and turned away an audience that might have been reluctant to see it to begin with. Being in a packed theatre watching a black and white silent film with everyone from twelve year old boys to eighty year old women and having them all tickled by the comedy, moved by the romance and incensed by the drama--that is movie magic and it is wondrous to behold.
It is the well-worn story of the most famous silent actor of 1927 as he is supplanted by 'talkies' and a fiery newcomer named Peppy Miller (think Singin' in the Rain). By his unwillingness to change and the stock market crash George Valentin loses all he ever had. Almost...
One friendship--that of Peppy Miller--never diminishes, and as he fades into obscurity while she rockets to the top she always seems to be keeping a close eye on him. It's love, and it's beautiful; cinematic in all of the ways that it should be. As George spirals into mania and depression she is the watchful soul, pining after her once idol and now her deep, true love.
This film will be impossible to dislike except by the hardest, meanest, most unfeeling people who automatically begrudge praise on what, by all accounts, should be a niche film. For everyone else who loves to laugh and loves to love The Artist will put a smile on their face and will wrap them in a warm hug of cinematic delight. True, it is not always correct in its technique and absolutely it is gimmicky, but so what? If that young girl sitting next to me giggles at the trained dog, the tap numbers, wiggly eyebrows and all of the other affectionate touches writer/director Michel Hazanavicius puts it then by God I approve!
What you will find in this film is a man who loves the art of cinema. I don't mean the character--though he does too--I mean Hazanavicius. This is not a new story or new characters, but he had some guts to write a great script with a lot of inspiration to bring that love of film to a crowd that might otherwise have gone the entirety of their lives not having seen something like this. When we are right in the midst of a period when films like Avatar and Hugo are validating experiences where one feels they could literally touch a movie, it is amazing to me to see a packed audience ready to see and to read and listen to beautiful music, while always fully aware they will not here a word spoken. Suddenly the past is new again. I do hope that this style of film making does not become a trend. The Artist is bold, fresh, daring and completely uncompromising.
Thus far I think I have made it sound as though this film is more or less exactly like a romance of the 1920's, and opening credits would have you believe it is. But let us be clear and make it noted that this movie knows exactly what and when it is. It came out in 2011, not 1929 and it never pretends to be that way. Very often I was aware that I was watching a contemporary film--a great one at that--and that made the moments of pure homage so enchanting. George is a film actor as I have said, so pay particular attention to the films that he premiers or that he works on. That was Hazanavicius's tip of the hat to a style long dead. What we have after that is a loving tribute, and an affectation of contemporary style which hopes desperately to get that smile and that tear out of its audience.
This is absolutely one of the best films of the year. It is deserving of all of its praise and more. Unknown French actors Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo are beautiful people with beautiful gifts with breathed such life and exuberance into characters that they obviously were very, very fond of. I would impress upon you to see this film if you are only to see one more movie before the awards season gets underway. Bring the family, bring your date, go alone, just see this film. See it and foster a new love for the artistry of a style and generation long forgotten.
4/4
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