Film Review - The Artist

A photo currently doing the rounds on Facebook shows a sign, presumably on display in a local cinema, “warning” audiences that The Artist is a silent, black and white film. Presumably some viewers had been storming out aghast and seeking refunds.

Let us leave aside the question of how, after all the Oscars buzz, some cinema-goers remain unaware of this, and acknowledge that in these high-tech, over-stimulated times, viewers could worry that a silent film might test their patience.

And so let’s be thankful that director Michel Hazanavicius’s producers dismissed this fear, because The Artist is a rare gem of a film – quirky, warm, charming and playful. It’s not perfect, but it is so delightful and sincere that it doesn’t matter.

You have probably heard the plot by now, but here it is just in case you’re one of the people who need a warning sign at the cinema. It’s 1927, and silent film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is at the very top of his game. Loved by his public, he rides the wave of adulation with brio, milking his popularity for all it is worth, along with his performing pet dog. He’s a shameless ham, narcissistic and a bit silly, but George is so jolly and amiable we forgive him.

At a public appearance promoting his new film, he bumps into aspiring actress Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), a chance encounter that leads to her getting work as an extra at George’s employer, Kinograph Studios. The two have zinging chemistry, and Peppy’s career blooms.

But the times they are a-changing, with the advent of sound films. George dismisses the new talkies as a gimmick, and is dismayed to see silent films wither and die, taking his own popularity and livelihood with them, as Peppy’s star continues to rise.

The picture adheres almost entirely to the conventions of silent film. Emotions and plot are conveyed by facial expressions, body language and visual pointers, with the odd intertitle. Ludovic Bource’s glorious soundtrack is played by the Brussels Philharmonic and reflects the jazz and plinky-plonky piano music of the genre. The only aural misstep is the use of Bernard Herrmann’s iconic Vertigo composition, a distracting and unnecessary anachronism.

There are clichés aplenty and the plot is predictable. At times I found it slow, probably owing to a diet of fast-paced Hollywood flicks. But I relate these observations only in the interests of balance, not as complaints.

The Artist is a joy, a love letter to silent film that never becomes contrived or knowing. Dujardin is sensational, Bejo is enchanting, and their canine co-star almost steals the show. There are pitch perfect, beautifully conceived scenes – one where George and Peppy’s blossoming attraction keeps ruining a take is particularly enjoyable and the last few minutes are an uplifting pleasure. This is an exceptional film with a big heart and if you have one too you will relish it.