The Artist Reviews (2011)

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It’s a good bet that a large swath of the people reading this sentence right now have never seen an entire silent film from front to back, with the possible exception of Metropolis or The Birth Of A Nation. They are the roots of the tree of cinematic history, obviously, but silents can be difficult to approach now, especially with regards to the way actors approach the camera: when your body has to do the talking, you have to exaggerate your movements and especially facial expressions, to the point where many silent film performances that were no-doubt beloved in their time now seem mildly silly, if not downright campy. Despite the lack of spoken words, silents can often seem as though they were shot in a foreign language.

There’s a wonderful nod to that notion at the end of The Artist, Michel Hazanavicius’ wonderful, touching, and at times hilarious nod to the evolution of modern talking film. He’s lucky to have on his side the talents of an actor who can, when he wishes, be as effective in the role of human cartoon as anyone working today. Hazanavicius has worked with Jean Dujardin before, on the wonderful OSS 117 films, both of which showed an absolutely remarkable fidelity to the filmmaking styles of the eras in which they were set. This went beyond use of rear projection or having everyone wear hippie clothing in the 60’s movie; everything from the film stock to the lighting showed a frightening dedication to matching the look and feel of a movie from the era, despite the fact that everyone involved was parodying the same movies that they were attempting to emulate.

Parody is not the intent with The Artist, although it does often gently poke fun at the excesses of silent film. It teases its target with the same affection that infused the OSS 117 films with such good cheer, albeit with more warmth and fewer outright jokes. Other films have chronicled the transition from silent movies to talkies, most notably Singing In The Rain, which The Artist takes a few cues from: it tells the story of George Valentin (Dujardin), a dashing Douglas Fairbanks sort, at the top of the acting game, who commands top billing in all of his silent films as well as the adulation of the throngs that flock to his films.

One member of those throngs happens to be Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), a young ingenue who literally stumbles into Valentin’s life after bumping into him outside of a movie premiere. A startling beauty, her accidental paparazzi pics with Valentin turn her into the “it” girl of the moment, which then propels her into bit parts, and from there: stardom, in trifles like The Aviatress, Young And Pretty, and The Beauty Spot. That’s a reflection of the downfall of Valentin’s career; unable to adapt to the changing world of talkies, he self-finances one last, grand, ridiculous African adventure-epic of the sort that ends with his character sinking to his death in quicksand. That, along with the stock market crash of 1929, of course, ruins him. His wife comes to him and claims to be unhappy. "So are millions of us," he says.

The tale of age making way for youth, and the frictions that that engenders, has been the driving force behind some classic films: think The Color Of Money or, perhaps, more ridiculously, Robocop, among many others. The years-long flirtation between the pair of stars is the heart of the melodrama here, and it is a melodrama indeed: with all of the twists and turns and close-ups on beautiful women shedding a single tear that you might expect. As a romance, the pacing is mildly awkward, with far more time given to the story of Valentin’s downfall and eventual genteel poverty than is given to the more charming story between the pair: the film drags slightly in the second act, as misfortune upon misfortune is piled on the head of Valentin. The film at times seems to wallow in showing the depths of his disgrace, to the point where it eventually becomes perhaps too dark. As far as melodramas go, the plot fits into the mold of the genre, but it still feels as though perhaps some of the emphasis could’ve been shifted from Valentin’s despair to his eventual redemption, which forms a coda that’s a bit too brief to be properly enjoyed.

Still, Dujardin is as delightful to watch here as he was in the OSS 117 films: even in those films, he utilized all the remarkable expressiveness of his face, and he’s able to exaggerate his amusement and curiosity and pride here to an effect that is by turns both touching and uproarious. It’s a rare gift for an actor to be able to make you smile and even laugh out loud just by virtue of a facial expression, especially without the benefit of a spoken joke to play off of, but Dujardin plays the role precisely as broad as you might like. He has a face that is preternaturally capable of making one smile, and he’s perfect here.

Bejo (Hazanavicius’ wife, and herself also a veteran of the first OSS 117 film), for her part, fills her role with all the effervescence that you might expect from someone with the name of Peppy. She sweeps into Hollywood with seemingly little to her name except an ability to do a flapper dance and a devastating little wink-and-bitten-lip look, but it’s easy to see how she manages to make all of Hollywood smitten with her; it's an utterly guileless and charming performance. And one would be remiss not to also mention Uggy the Jack Russell terrier here; as Valentin’s stalwart companion, he gives one of the funniest dog performances in recent live-action memory, playing dead on command and rescuing his master from a suitably dramatic dangerous situation and by running off to bark at a cop until he gets his attention. He’s the goodest good boy that’s graced the big screen in quite a while.

If the romance between Valentin and Peppy isn’t quite as charming as it probably could’ve been (the pair go years without speaking, or perhaps I mean “speaking”), that doesn’t quite detract from the meat of the film. Whether or not you consider the notion of a silent film in 2011 to be a gimmick, it still has a peculiar effect on an audience. Without voices and language to fall back on (aside from spare use of intertitles), a film is almost completely reliant on the body and faces of its actors to convey its story, and Hazanavicius has made some wonderful choices in that regard. Bejo and Dujardin are ably supported by ringers like John Goodman and James Cromwell; there are a number of recognizable American actors in smaller roles (the film was shot in Los Angeles, despite the principals and production companies largely being French), but not so many cameos that it winds up distracting.

What’s perhaps more startling, though, is how easily a modern audience finds itself adapting to the language of a silent film. That might be the ultimate lesson of The Artist, its ability to show how an excellent story (and despite the caveats I listed above, it’s rarely less than compelling) doesn’t need color or spoken language to resonate. I can’t quite decide whether The Artist isn’t for everyone, or whether it’s precisely for everyone, simply as a result of its nature. That ultimately is probably a debate that doesn’t really matter: in a year that’s replete with movies that focus on the wonders of filmmaking, The Artist is almost assuredly the best.