The Artist reviewed

The news last week that cinema-goers in Liverpool demanded a refund after being surprised (and, it would seem, inexplicably horrified) to learn that The Artist was a silent film got me thinking about what the right level of “informed” is when going to see a film. Even if they weren’t ones for poring over reviews and interviews, I find it very hard to believe that these unsatisfied customers were completely unaware of their selected film’s USP when they bought their tickets. At the same time, it is great to be pleasantly surprised when a film exceeds your expectations – if you had any at all. And yet part of the fun of being a movie geek is picking up on pre-release buzz, isn’t it?

At any rate, going in with low expectations proved tricky in my case with The Artist. The film has been slowly building up hype since it debuted at Cannes last spring, and over the past few months has trodden the familiar terrain of winning great reviews on the festival circuit, then tidying up nicely at the Golden Globes just to add fuel to the Oscar buzz, and even an inevitable backlash starting to creep in. Earlier today it had Academy Award nominations confirmed in 10 categories, including four of the majors as anticipated, and is the firm favourite to take Best Picture.

It would undoubtedly be a deserved win. For those still in the dark (or maybe a sound-proof booth?), The Artist tells the tale of fading Hollywood silent movie star George Valentin and his encounters with rising screen starlet Peppy Miller, and the impact the introduction of talkies has on their respective careers. So far, so Singin’ in the Rain. Except, of course, The Artist is black and white, and virtually dialogue-free, relying instead on the very medium whose demise it chronicles. A large part of its appeal is the simple and innocent charm of its old-fashioned setting, yet at the same time certain elements mirror the way things are now – economic downturn, celebrity fetishism, and major technological change. It also feels just a little bit groundbreaking somehow, being so brazenly anachronistic in the age of digital effects and blockbuster sequels. While stylized to a certain extent, it’s by no means a cynical film at all, and also never descends into being twee or saccharine.

Much of the charm also stems from the excellent performances by Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo in the lead roles, both of which have been rewarded with award noms. The relationship between the two is very well-played with affection growing as they run into each other while their star trajectories move increasingly in opposite directions – a plot point neatly encapsulated in a scene where they meet on the stairs at studio HQ, with her – literally – on the way up and him decidedly on his way down. Both have amazingly expressive faces and the chemistry is evident from their characters’ first chance encounter. As much as I am a fan of The Clooney, it would be nice to see Jean Dujardin trump him to take Best Actor – The Academy has previous here in awarding relatively unknown foreign actors (Robert Benigni in 1999) – in addition to the fact that comedy is traditionally chronically overlooked. Dujardin never starts to grate when pulling off a physical comedy style that is particularly difficult to do without over-mugging. He lets his incredibly agile eyebrows do the talking, while, at the risk of trotting out tired old clichés, Bejo truly lights up the screen with her ingénue smile. (As a wee fashion aside, one of the film’s 10 potential Oscars is for costume – a fact entirely justified by the range of gorgeous drop-waist dresses and cloche hats that make up Peppy’s wardrobe. Between this and the upcoming Great Gatsby, Grazia readers can expect a glut of a ‘20s chic’ articles over the next few months…). There’s lots of fun to be had in the supporting roles too, with James Cromwell, John Goodman, and Uggy the dog – who is fast becoming the breakout star. I particularly enjoyed Valentin’s wife, with her withering looks across the breakfast table and passive-aggressive defacing of his headshots.

Ultimately, however, I wasn’t quite as blown away by the experience as the rave reviews had led me to believe I might be. That said, while I might not have wept tears of joys as some reviewers claimed to, it definitely was an enjoyable night out at the cinema, a testament to the simple expression of human emotion as cinema’s unifying language - and the final, joyous dance sequence ensures the audience leaves on a high. It reminded me a little of Slumdog Millionnaire in that respect (and, I should add, in that respect only), and there’s a very good chance The Artist will repeat that film’s trick come February.