- The Artist theatrical poster - image courtesy of Hey U Guys
Having grown up on the magic afforded by silent cinema (case in point: King Vidor’s The Crowd was the first movie to ever make me cry), I’ve long adored the idea of modern filmmakers rekindling an art form that was, some might say, cut down in its prime. Though not true silent films, Guy Maddin has experimented with the style for years in films like Brand Upon the Brain! and My Winnipeg, themselves proof of the medium’s remaining vitality, to say nothing of the power movies like Nosferatu, Wings and Steamboat Bill, Jr. still hold over audiences today.
Now that a Weinstein-backed Michel Hazanavicius has gone almost whole hog on the idea with the throwback The Artist, I can’t help but feel that damning twinge of “be careful what you wish for.” It’s clear that this impeccably crafted film, which replicates the style of mid to late 20s melodramas with impressive precision, was made with love for the pre-talky days, but my suspicion is that this retro exercise will appeal mostly to audiences with little to no experience with actual silent films.
Should it prove the breakout Oscar hit it’s currently positioned to be, I’ll be happy for whatever new fans it ushers in to the work of Griffith, Lang, Dreyer, Murnau and the like. But inasmuch as Hazanavicius wants to revitalize the silent cinema, my fear is that this film has already nailed the coffin shut for good. Watching it is tantamount to having the life slowly sucked out of you like a deflating balloon. There’s no ghost in this machine.
The year is 1926, and things are good for movie star George Valentin (played with sincere mimicry by Jean Dujardin, based loosely on the real-life heartthrob Rudolph Valentino). That’s before the talkies take over Hollywood, and the stock market crash, the one-two punch of which robs the proud actor of his marketability and finances. Outpacing him is one Peppy Miller (a darling Bérénice Bejo), whose ascent to stardom began courtesy of a chance meeting with Valentin on the red carpet, one that planted the seeds of friendship and romance to come in spite of personal and worldly turmoil.
The film considers the changing tides of culture and technology, not unlike Singin’ in the Rain (a theme made more poignant by the current trend of digital replacing celluloid – the similarly nostalgic Hugo goes one further with its expert use of 3D), albeit with little more than bland lip service. The Artist is a silent film stunt that prizes form over content, and may well have dealt with its subject matter better in a more typical modern style. When the film purports to break the rules, the effect is trite instead of transcendent, which only confirms the shallow effect of the whole experience.
Almost ineptly, the storyline ultimately falls in line with the mentality of progress above all else, and The Artist’s inevitable awards consideration will likely only help to further close the books on the era of physical, tangible film. For all of its technical expertise and audaciousness, it represents little more than a self-congratulatory exercise with depressingly little meat on its bones. Want a real dose of silent drama? Move Broken Blossoms to the top of your Netflix queue. The Artist is a poseur’s work of art.
The Artist. Dir. Michel Hazanavicius. Perf. Jean Dujardin, Bérénice Bejo, John Goodman, James Cromwell, Penelope Ann Miller, Malcolm McDowell. The Weinstein Company, 2011. Running Time: 100 min. 2 out of 5 stars (no halves).
