4/10
Written and directed by: Michel Hazanavicius
Starring: Jean Dujardin, Bérénice Bejo, John Goodman
I watched The Artist on the evening of Sunday 26 February. I walked out of the cinema to discover that it had just won ‘Best Picture’ in Los Angeles. And that Kevin Rudd had just been schaponed (combination of Schapelle Corby and poned) by Julia Gillard in Canberra. I’m sure there’s a parallel there somewhere.
The Artist is this year’s Steven Bradbury of Hollywood; just like the Australian speed-skater who won Olympic gold at Salt Lake City in 2002 when all his opponents stacked, The Artist won Best Picture because all its opponents (not including Midnight In Paris) sucked. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, The Descendants, Moneyball etc… not exactly Oscar-worthy. Reminds me of when Crash won in 2006.
You all know the three key points about The Artist: 1) it’s a silent movie; 2) it’s shot in black and white; and 3) it’s French. The critics never stood a chance. Since its release, they’ve been climbing over each other reaching for fawning hyperbole like piglets climbing over each other reaching for the teat.
The plot is simple enough: a 1920s silent movie superstar (George Valentin, played by 2012’s ‘Best Actor’, Jean Dujardin) is sidelined by the advent of sound in cinema, and his career and personal life unravel accordingly until he is rescued by the femme (rising Hollywood star Peppy Miller, played by Bérénice Bejo).
I was dreading seeing this film and I’m not ashamed to admit it. We left silent and b&w films behind for good reason: because sound and colour are better. We have not yet left French films behind, but I continue to hold out hope.
I found The Artist so very, very, slow. The novelty of watching actors gesturing wildly and mouthing their words like a Monkey Magic dub-fest towards the camera is entertaining exactly once. And no amount of gushing by critics about the brilliance of its homage to John Gilbert, A Star is Born, Singin in the Rain etc can change the fact that watching the film feels like a chore.
I guess there’s something unique and meta about a film which explores a bye-gone era of film by channeling it. And there’s something to be said about the fact that a film with a total of perhaps 50 words of dialogue (displayed as intertitles) can please $80m worth of people at box offices around the world off the back of a $15m investment.
But if your question is whether I enjoyed watching The Artist, my answer is no.
Great review JD – and I agree with a lot of what you say, but I was still going to give it a whopping 9/10.
And I really agree with your call that the novelty of watching actors gesturing wildly and mouthing their words like a Monkey Magic dub-fest towards the camera is entertaining exactly once. But for me that was a long “once”, sustained right to the end credits. I wouldn’t care to watch The Artist a second time and I reckon that without the fresh novelty factor its abundant cleverness and charm would soon turn to tedium (if I were to keep re-watching a movie from the last 12 months I’d choose to have pints with Hemingway in Paris, or go for a swim with Smiley in Tinker Tailor…).
But if your question is whether I enjoyed watching The Artist, my answer is yes.