The Artist

Like many other so-called armchair movie pundits, I do not believe that THE ARTIST deserved to take the Oscar for Best Picture of 2011. Let me get that out of the way. The wave of hype and acclaim for this film was huge, and, IMO, understandable. Writer/director Michel Havanivicius designed a stylish, black and white movie to evoke the silent film era in Hollywood. And yes, his film is silent save for a few utterances in the very last scene.

Bold experiment? Gimmick? Iffy on both counts. Risky, for certain. Artistically and financially. The dangers of lapsing into pretentiousness were considerable. And how many twenty first century audiences have the patience for a silent film? To actually have to read (at least not as much as during, oh dear, a foreign film with subtitles!). Even those of a certain age bracket who you would expect to be more accepting of such a thing? But THE ARTIST found its audience, and many were cheering. Excited that such a film could be made, that someone cared enough to compose a love poem to a long gone era. I concur, but I just wish the film was a bit more substantial.

But what should I have expected? A sympathetic ode to old Hollywood is unlikely to be anything but a featherweight confection. A self-congratulatory celebration of the make-believe. A silent film sensation in 1927 named George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) dazzles his fans and the paparazzi with his panache and endlessly expressive visage (this serves him well in films where there are no audible voices, of course). At a premiere, he literally bumps into a young fan, a would-be actress named Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo). After being captured by a horde of shutterbugs, the pair are featured on the cover of Variety. "Who's That Girl?" reads the headline.

Doris (Penelope Ann Miller), George's wife, is not amused. It is just another wedge in an already icy marriage. George will nonetheless help Peppy win a small role in his latest picture (against the wishes of skeptical studio chief Al Zimmer, well played by John Goodman), allowing them time together on the dance floor, very nimbly and effortlessly bringing off a nifty routine. It is clear that there is a certain magic between them, offscreen as well.

They do not engage in the expected affair (not a physical one, at least). Rather, George provides mentorship and guidance. In one sweet scene, he takes a grease pencil and applies a birthmark near her lips, to distinguish her from the other starlets. Peppy's career begins to take off - bit roles give way to leads. She makes a smooth transition into "talkie" films. George, suspicious of such films from the beginning, does not.

Valentin's life then suffers a sharp decline: loss of acting roles, a failed directorial effort, Stock Market Crash of 1929. He wife finally leaves him, adding insult to injury by recommending in her goodbye note for him to go out and see Peppy's latest film, a box office sensation. George suffers nightmares: in an effective, thoughtful sequence he hears environmental sounds like a glass placed on a tabletop with great intensity, yet can't hear his own voice.

Only his unfailingly loyal butler Clifton (James Cromwell, who is terrific) and dog Uggie (who does some impressive work, it must be said) remain by his side. But Peppy is always watching from afar....

THE ARTIST is a fairly brisk view, and it worked on two levels for me: the sheer novelty of its presentation and the building emotions surrounding the plot. The latter sustains the film in the second half, as Valentin's situation (and his response) grows increasingly dire and melodramatic. But by that time I realized the film's script was little more than a riches to rags to....story, seen countless times in the cinema.

I'm not one to attribute a film's worth solely on the screenplay; sometimes the music is what matters, not the mere words. But THE ARTIST proves itself to be paper thin, an easy tribute. Regrettably, this film is oddly unambitious and content with itself. As much as I enyoyed this movie, I wish Havanivicius tried to emulate the richness and depth of Chaplin, Keaton, or Vidor rather than just producing a forgettable valentine.

And when you finally hear George Valentin speak at the end, you may rightly wonder how successful he would've been in the talkies.