Review: THE ARTIST
There were more than a few bemused faces when Harvey Weinstein bought the rights to The Artist at Cannes and proceeded to give the film a prime Oscar release date. Had the most powerful man in Hollywood finally buckled under the stress and lost his marbles. Well, no as usual Weinstein knew exactly what he was doing when he purchased The Artist, a gorgeous, witty homage to the golden days of Hollywood shot in shimmering black and white photography without a hint of speech or modern cinematic indulgences. Emerging fully formed from the glitz and glamour of the Golden Globes last week with three wins for best film (musical or comedy), best actor for Jean Dujardin and best music for its score The Artist is now the film to beat come the Academy Awards. A French underdog, fighting against Hollywood A-list productions The Descendants, War Horse and Hugo.
Taking us back to the bygone era of the movies when there was no sound and acting meant flaying your limbs in every direction to convey as much emotion as possible. The film is set in 1927 on the cusp of the invention of the ‘talkies’ and contrasts the fate of two movie stars, one sinking into the vacuum of silent pictures the other embracing sound and rising to the top. Dujardin play silent movie star George Valentin, one of the biggest stars of the moment, blissfully ignorant of the new technology that will lead to his ruin. He bumps into aspiring actress Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo) on the red carpet who slowly works her way up the Hollywood ladder until she materializes as the new face of Hollywood in a string of ‘talkies’.
I marvel at how a film with no dialogue can be so full of life. It’s moving and very very funny. Going into the cinema I thought that a two hour film with no words would get old very quickly but those thoughts vanished as soon as the lights went dark. Apparently some people demanded their money back in cinemas after seeing the film because there was no speaking, not realising this before they went in. You just have to laugh.
Stylistically it truly feels like a movie from the 20s right down to the opening credits and the giant speech bubbles that pop up on screen like they used to in George Melies’s films. It’s recreation of Los Angeles in the 20s is marvellous: cavernous Beverley Hill’s mansions covered in ivy and old chauffer driven motors. All the men wear tuxedos and the women look like extras from Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. It’s a nostalgic, visual treat in the same vain as Midnight in Paris. The vintage musical score helps to fill the gap that is left in absence of word, communicating much of the emotion and character growth.
Dujardin has one of those faces that belong to another era. With a dashing pencil moustache and his charming canine sidekick who I’m almost certain is Eddie from Frasier he is perfect. Equally accomplished as the buffoon like ego of Valentin as he is the broken, penniless man he becomes. Berenice Bejo is a revelation as new kid on the block Peppy Miller. She should get an Oscar nom just for her tap dancing moves. American stars Missi Pyle, John Goodman and James Cromwell pop up in cameos in what is essentially a monolithic French affair.
The Artist supposedly renewed Weinstein’s love of cinema. Sounds about right.
