It wasn't until a good thirty minutes into The Artist that I realized this was neither an homage or a post-modern genre scramble to an artistic form that's been gone for 80-something years. This was, with only the smallest of dismissible instances, the genuine article. The Artist, if you didn't know, is an upbeat, “Golden Days of Hollywood” silent film and it is adorable.
As George's star is falling, another is rising. A delightful meet-cute introduces us to Peppy Miller, played all grins and gams by the positively fetching Berenice Bejo. Despite an instant, distracting attraction between the two, the (unhappily) married George relegates himself to the role of mentor. He even applies the makeup that gives Peppy her soon-to-be signature beauty spot. Indeed, a starring vehicle called “Beauty Spot” is the film that turns Peppy into a sensation.
“Beauty Spot,” however, is a sound film, which happens to be released the same day as George's cri de coeur independently produced, suddenly un-hip silent film that ruins him financially and spiritually.
This good time manifests itself though physical comedy, elegant montage and arguably the most canine reaction shots in the history of cinema. Hazanavicius loves to show faces and while watching shot/reverse shot dialogue without, um, dialogue may seem like a paradox, with this team in place it is a joy.
The film is also clever as all hell. The film-within-a-film opening kicks off with villainous torturers declaring “we will make you talk!” and the heroic Valentin responding “Never!” We know George will ultimately have to adapt to changing times, but he'll have to do it on his terms. The way The Artist gets to this conclusion is just peculiar enough to keep you in its grip.
There's no underselling the beauty of The Artist. The cinematography by Guilliaume Schiffman is a thick shake of rich gray tones. Ludovic Bource's ubiquitous score is sweet and engaging and does more heavy lifting than just about any other you are going to hear this year.
Rhapsodizing the early days of movie making is not uncharted ground (think Singin' in the Rain), but not even Peter Bogdanovich's Nickelodeon or the formal exercises by Guy Maddin come close to The Artist in terms of sheer all-or-nothing chutzpah. And some people, quite frankly, just won't be able to handle it. There are people (fools, but functioning citizens) who reject movies because they are in black and white. “I don't like to read movies” the occasional cretin will say about a subtitled film. It is for this reason we must champion The Artist as it dives into awards season. I'm not saying it is the best movie of the year, but how freakin' cool would it be if those slobs who reject anything outside of their comfort zone were forced to deal with a French silent as picture of the year?
