The Artist (2011)

As I write this, it seems to have become the general consensus that The Artist will win Best Picture at the Academy Awards in February. I don’t necessarily care whether that’s the case or not—based on all the films in the awards race this year, I won’t really have a dog in the fight—but unfortunately I couldn’t help but let this knowledge affect my viewing of the film. Normally I’ll try and see all the potential Oscar films before the buzz really heats up, but based on how they released this one I couldn’t get around to seeing it before it was crowned the Best Picture-elect. And now that I have seen it, I more or less understand why so many are in love with it. The Artist is an incredibly charming and often moving film that looks great and features a really fun performance by Jean Dujardin. It’s certainly entertaining, but there’s not a whole lot of substance to it besides the central gimmick and a thick coating of nostalgia to top it all off. There’s nothing really wrong with it, but with all the great modern filmmaking we’re seeing right now it’s a tad disheartening that this is what we’ve chosen to rally around.

The aforementioned Dujardin stars as George Valentin, a silent movie star who completely rules the cinematic world in the 1920s. When the head of the studio (John Goodman) introduces him to the new technology of sound, Valentin laughs in his face and leaves the studio looking to make it on his own. Predictably, he winds up losing everything and getting left behind by the film industry. However, he continues to follow the career of budding film star Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), who he flirted with on several occasions during the later years of his success. While his career goes further south, hers skyrockets, and all George is left with are memories and the greatest dog in the history of cinema: Jack.

I’ll start with what the film does well, which, I’ll admit, is a whole lot. The Artist was written and directed by Michel Hazanavicius, whose love of cinema is apparent in every last frame. At times, The Artist feels like an incredibly tame Quentin Tarantino film, with all the references to cinema’s history and occasional recycling of past musical themes. (The most buzzed-about is the theme from Vertigo, which so offended Kim Novak.) The film’s wall-to-wall enthusiasm is infectious. Unfortunately, Hazanavicius eventually makes the decision to get all serious on us, including a few rather depressing moments that clash violently with the joy that came before. It’s not wholly ineffective, but there were a couple moments when it seems like Hazanavicius forgot the exact movie he was making. When The Artist wanted me to laugh, I usually laughed. When it wanted me to cry, it was far less successful.

At this moment I realize that I have yet to specify exactly what the film’s gimmick is. My guess that if you follow movie news and reviews at all, you probably know. For those of you that don’t: The Artist is, by and large, an old-fashioned silent film. It is in black-and-white, and all dialogue comes in the form of title cards. The only sound that we hear—apart from a few clever exceptions—is the original score. While this is effective in the telling of Hazanavicius’ story, it still amounts to little more than a gimmick. It makes the film charming, and it uses its few moments of sound very well, but it doesn’t serve much of a purpose beyond that. Make no mistake: the style of The Artist is the reason to see the movie. But let’s not mistake this style for substance. If you go looking for that, you’ll probably come up empty.

The best moments of the film are the interactions between Dujardin and Bejo, who have terrific chemistry even though you can’t hear a word they say. Everyone involved with The Artist completely nails the look and feel of old silent films, and as a result they have made a pretty darn gorgeous one here. The story is a clichéd re-hash of Singin’ in the Rain and about a million other old Hollywood movies, and the only real thing it has to say about anything is how awesome movies used to be, but it’s hard to deny just how effective the film is as a unique diversion. It’s hard to imagine anyone coming out of The Artist and saying they hated it, and if you are scared of it just because it’s a silent movie, give me a break.

However, when this film wins Best Picture next month I’m going to be disappointed in the Academy once more. Yes, in the grand scheme of things the Oscars don’t matter. But it’s going to be another case of the award going to a safe but well-done choice as opposed to something riskier and more forward-thinking. Just a couple years ago, the Academy got my hopes up when The Hurt Locker beat out Avatar. For a moment, it seemed like we were moving forward into an age where the trophy wasn’t simply handed out to the most harmless choice. Then last year, The King’s Speech beat out The Social Network. Both films are terrific at what they do, but only one of them had anything to say about modern society. The other was a costume drama. The Artist is simply a delightful ode to old-fashioned filmmaking, and next month we are going to select it as the best that cinema had to offer in 2011. It is what it is.

Grade: B

P.S.- I realize this probably wasn’t much of a review, but I figured enough legitimate, “just talk about the movie!” reviews have been written about this film by now. I simply decided to give my opinion on the matter.