I have to admit, my entire experience with silent movies consists of maybe two Charlie Chaplin films when I was a kid (thanks to my dad) and a short segment of the silent epic Birth of a Nation in college. As a proud member of Generation Y, these types of films seem more foreign to me than, well, foreign films, because let’s face it, we’re loud. Think about how often in a day you can actually hear silence. I can barely take a nap without having a fan on in the background! Still, silent films aren’t completely devoid of entertainment. They’re built for laughs, with their exaggerated characters and melodramatic plots. It’s slapstick comedy slapped on the big screen. Nobody went to a silent film to have a bad time.
For a film like The Artist to revive that era of filmmaking had to be the marketing quagmire of the century. Here’s how that conversation probably went in the board room:
Michel Hazanavicius: “Hey, I want to make a movie in black and white!”
Producers: “Oh. Well, okay, it worked out well for Good Night and Good Luck…”
Michel: “And it’ll be a silent picture.”
Producers: “Oh…are there going to be subtitles…?”
Michel: “Better! Dialogue cards!”
Producers: “You can have ten dollars.”
In spite of overwhelming odds, The Artist is every bit as charming as you could hope it to be. Michel Hazanavicius nails the look and feel of a traditional silent film to the point where it seems unbelievable it was made in the new millennium.
The film follows the fall of silent film star George Valentin in the advent of “the talkies,” which consequently makes Peppy Miller, a young ingénue, a Hollywood starlet. The two have intertwining destinies in the film industry, and the loss of one means the gain of the other.
The film succeeds because it’s not simply a reproduction of a 1920s era silent film, but a modern reimagining of them. It pokes as much fun at itself for the clichés of the period as it does at contemporary films and their obsession with loud and obnoxious effects. The laughs are earned because we realize how simple the punchlines are. Instead of the visual and audial trickery of today’s films, the trickery in The Artist is in, well, black and white. For example, what silent film would be complete without a loveable animal sidekick? Uggie the Jack Russell terrier upstages his human costars throughout much of the movie. When Uggie runs for help after a fire breaks out, you’ll find yourself silently chanting, “Go, Uggie, go!!” There’s a particularly wonderful scene where Peppy uses George’s coat to pretend they’re dancing, and it’s absolute movie magic.
Unfortunately, here’s where the review turns a little sour. At times, I felt the plot was far too oversimplified. There’s no deviation or distraction from the main plot: the fall of Valentin and the rise of Peppy. Furthermore, the characters had little abstraction either. You know exactly who everyone is and how they feel throughout the whole movie. John Goodman is the stodgy movie exec. James Cromwell is the ever-faithful chauffeur. Even Dujardin, for the whole movie, is a prideful self-absorbed sap. Bejo is the one exception; she has that rare ability to look both young and experienced at the same time, so when she goes from nobody to somebody seemingly overnight, it believe it.
I loved the movie in it’s entirety, but I feel if it wins big tonight at the Oscars, it’ll be mostly for the feeling it evokes in all of us toward the movies of old and new and not necessarily for the perfection of the story.
-John
Becky’s Review
After leaving Maiden Alley Theater, I had the sudden urge to tap dance all the way through the alley back to our car. This was my first experience with a silent film and it exceeded my expectations; it was fun and exhilarating.
At the same time, I will admit I had a couple of moments where I desperately wanted to hear the music and dialogue combined. They did an incredible job conveying feelings and interactions without audible dialogue. But I am a creature of the modern era, and while I can appreciate this artistic endeavor, it’s hard for me to completely devote myself to a silent film without wishing some scenes had voices added.
One of the first things I notice about an actor is his voice and how much I loathe or love it.
For example, I LOVE Clive Owen’s voice (King Arthur in—wait for it—King Arthur) and I LOATHE Emmy Rossum and Holly Hunter’s voices (the first whispers 24-7, even if she is about to drown in Poseidon and the second has a gravelly, nasally quality that is distracting at best).
Back on topic, my other problem would be the quick and somewhat jarring switch between hammy, “There’s NO business like SHOW BUSINESS!” and melodramatic, “I have lost my wife, career and am about to commit suicide.” But wait, we can’t stay down too long! We switch back to the adorable Jack Russell terrier Uggie who breaks the tension with a “Bang, you’re dead” trick which gets a chuckle every time.
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