I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how this movie made me feel, what it made me believe. It seemed to me that we have a fascination with early Hollywood — so early the sign on the hill still says “Hollywoodland.” A time when the Hollywood dynasties were only just beginning, and Douglas Fairbanks Sr. had yet to pass the mantel to his pretty son. The magical apparatus was sometimes still apparent in those days, and everything was fresh and new.
Then suddenly, just when our nation was falling apart economically, sound seized the movies, and silent film stars went from the pinnacles of success and fame (not necessarily joy) to pits of depression and unemployment. Rather like the nation. In the early 1930s, things went from bad to worse; silent films disappeared altogether, while dust storms were building in the country’s breadbasket. Meanwhile, however, the movie musical was born. Now here we are in a new century, with new technologies in the movies, and a recession/depression/whatever you want to call it. And we are drawn to that little industry that could, that skyrocketed along with post World War I America and somehow stayed afloat when the rest of the world sank. Hollywood survived it all to grow to its present enormous power. Face it, there was a greater furor in 2011 over Netflix messing with our movie supply (streaming! DVD!) than there was in 2000 over the hanging chads of the Florida election scandal. See, you’ve already forgotten that, but you’re still mad at Netflix. That’s power.
Anyway, that’s a lot of overthinking and probably a lot of bunk. Mostly what Michel Hazanavicius did was write a scenario he believed would make a good movie, talk other people into producing it (thank you, producer Thomas Langmann), cast it brilliantly, all to give us this little gem called The Artist. Who cares about the rest?
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| Penelope Ann Miller wondering who Peppy is. |
The film opens at a film opening in 1927, with silent film star George Valentin (deliciously played by Jean Dujardin) at the height of his powers and fame. George is rather a Douglas Fairbanks Sr. sort of silent film actor, an acrobat with a big grin and a little moustache. He leaps and fences and romances and has a fine old time. George Valentin is a Star. He is charming and vain and doubtless neglectful of his chilly wife, played to perfection by Penelope Ann Miller. He has a loyal chauffeur played with quiet strength by James Cromwell, and a disloyal cigar-chomping producer played by John Goodman. At the beginning of the film, George meets and becomes enamored of Peppy Miller, a shining starlet played glowingly by Bérénice Bejo.
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| John Goodman as the Producer |
Mademoiselle Bejo is gorgeous in an unintimidating, gangly girl-next-door kind of way, with a huge smile and long limbs. Her lean lines allow her to do a hilarious turn in George’s dressing room. The innocent yet intimate moments between Peppy and George are sweet yet not saccharine.
And most importantly, George has the smartest and most loyal dog in the world, a Jack Russell called only “The Dog” in the credits, and brilliantly portrayed by Uggie.
The Artist is a reversal of the standard movie romance, as well as the beloved film Singin' in the Rain. In Singin' in the Rain, the not at all classy Lina Lamont was discovered to have a dreadful speaking voice. In The Artist, the Lina Lamont character is Constance, hilariously played by Missy Pyle, and she is more likely to survive than George.
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| Valentin and his co-star Constance, played by Missy Pyle |
The Artist is a film of faces, young and old. Fine faces filled with character, wisdom, joy and pain, including Peppy’s maid played by Beth Grant, her butler played by Ed Lauter, and the sweet-natured nurse at Peppy’s house, as played by Lily Knight.
Particularly delightful touches:
- Before Peppy makes it big, we see her name climb up the credit list as years go by, with her name occasionally spelled in different ways ….
- The marvelous scene on the staircase in which Peppy, running up the stairs, turns from above to talk with George, on his way down. This requires no dialogue. Whatever she says, with enthusiasm and joi de vivre, he receives with melancholy pleasure. The scene is visually clever, while at its heart it’s all about the barely hidden feelings each has for the other.
- The sudden advent of sound in George’s life is the stuff of his nightmare, literally.
- Joyous use of black-and-white filming that makes painterly scenes of George’s life darkening as his career diminishes.
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| Jean Dujardin as George Valentin |
But wait, didn’t I say this is a romance? It is, but just as The Artist does a gender reversal of Singin' in the Rain, so is it a reversal of your standard romance. Peppy needs no man to rescue her, but George needs someone. And his Knight is a Lady.
The Artist is referential and reverent of the movies. Not at all like Scorsese’s Hugo, in which his filmmaker character believes — incorrectly — that the movies create dreams. It’s the dreams, and dreamers, who create movies. The Artist contains a sequence of Citizen Kane breakfast shots that made me laugh out loud despite the sadness conveyed in them. One long climactic interval is surprisingly yet appropriately accompanied by Bernard Hermann’s “Love Scene” from Vertigo. It is a remarkable piece of music: Different as the scenes it accompanies are, it still weaves itself into the emotions of the characters.
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| Berenice Bejo as Peppy Miller |
The Artist is a fine piece of work, and movies aren’t made by a few people, but many. I cannot close without mentioning the excellent original music by Ludovic Bource, the aforementioned glorious cinematography by Guillaume Schiffman, perfect film editing by Anne-Sophie Bion and Monsieur Hazanavicius, gorgeous production design and art direction by Laurence Bennett and Gregory S. Hooper respectively, along with set decoration by Austin Buchinsky and Robert Gould that brought us back in time, and, finally, costume design by Mark Bridges that doubtless made the actors believe it was 1930 and far, far away from the present.
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| George and Peppy a la Fred and Ginger |
The Artist is utterly delightful. I laughed, I cried, I held my breath, and was thoroughly warmed in its embrace. It is absolutely my favorite movie of the year (yes, I went to see Hugo), and my pick for best picture, best director, and best screenplay. Any other awards you want to give it are fine by me.
~ Molly Matera, signing off, contemplating going back to the theatre to see The Artist again.
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(Insert silent video of me nodding in agreement.)
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