Sometimes, a movie comes out that receives a lot of praise, but for whatever reason, I can’t get excited about seeing it. Case in point: “The Artist.” As it slowly released across the country and then gained momentum in the weeks leading up to the Academy Awards, I could not bring myself to buy a ticket. Then it won the Best Picture Oscar, and I decided to get off my duff and see what the fuss was about.
I believe I blinked three times during “The Artist,” and as the end credits rolled, I could not stop smiling. Like “Hugo,” it’s a joyous celebration of the movies, and a warm, nostalgic embrace of classic cinema. But more than that, it’s a remarkable motion picture.
Yes, “The Artist” is a black and white silent movie, but that’s not a mark against it. Rather, by stripping the film of color and sound, director Michel Hazanavicius allowed the basic elements of good moviemaking to bubble to the surface. Like an Ansel Adams photograph, the imagery is stark and dramatic, and the lines and shadows in each shot are clearly defined, like the emotions of the central characters. Moreover, the acting is highly expressive, as though the actors were performing on a stage rather than a movie set. But most intriguing, the lack of sound forces viewers to pay close attention to what the actors are doing. This drew me deeper into the story, and helped me to identify with the characters in a way that’s rare for a modern movie.
Even more remarkable is how Hazanavicius accomplishes all of this without an ounce of pretention. Instead of being artsy fartsy movie that appeals only to snobbish elitists, “The Artist” is a simple romantic comedy that’s accessible to all audiences. Love, laughter, tears, drama and suspense all have their moment on the screen.
The story centers on George Valentin, a silent era star who, as the movie opens, is at the height of his popularity. Purely by accident, he discovers a vibrant young woman named Peppy, and insists they make a film together. Audiences love her, and eventually, she replaces him as the box office wonder of the world. The catalyst for Valentin’s fall is not Peppy’s good looks or gravitas, however, but the introduction of sound to movies. No one wants to hear him speak, he tells her in a heartbreaking scene. She loves him, though, and endeavors to save him as he slips into a suicidal spin.
Hazanavicius used the conventions of the silent era to tell his story. Actors mouth their lines, and occasionally, a snippet of dialogue appears on the screen. The orchestral score is richly evocative, and does a superb job of establishing the mood in a scene and communicating emotion. And a closing and opening iris takes audiences from one scene to the next.
There is sound in “The Artist,” but Hazanavicius used it sparingly and to great dramatic effect. However, the most stunning moment in the movie is still a cut from a silent shot, to a single word on the screen, to another silent shot. The most ear-shattering explosion in movie history would not have had the same degree of impact. In that scene, Hazanavicius skillfully builds the expectations of viewers based on what they have learned by watching other movies, and then delivers something unexpected and powerful.
Most importantly, the chemistry between Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo, who play George and Peppy, respectively, is extraordinary. Had that not been the case, “The Artist” would have failed, given its reliance on its actors and its emphasis on its two central characters.
In this age of spectacle, when imagination is the only thing that limits what filmmakers can render on the screen, and when sound is used to pummel audiences into submission, a black and white silent film has emerged to remind us of why we grew to love movies in the first place. Maybe you aren’t excited about seeing “The Artist.” But as it lingers in theaters, take my advice: Get off your duff and see what the fuss is about. You won’t be able to stop smiling.
Rated PG-13 for a disturbing image and a rude gesture. Four stars out of four. Email David Laprad at dlaprad@hamiltoncountyherald.com.