The Artist

Charm, compromise and Uggie the dog

The Artist is taking over the world, award ceremony by award ceremony. Written and directed by Michel Hazanavicius, it is a personal project which has enjoyed remarkable success. Most remarkable of all is that this is a silent film, a bold decision which is paying off miraculously. I was curious, of course.

Jean Dujardin plays George Valentin, a star of the silent screen struggling to adjust to the transition to sound. Having been instrumental in the rise of Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), he sees her career soar from bit-part dancer to sound film phenomenon, whilst his grinds to a halt, with only his dog to console him. Altogether, The Artist is a bright-eyed, sparky look back at Hollywood's biggest upheaval, A Star Is Born by way of Singin' in the Rain and Sunset Boulevard. There are cloche hats, top hats, irascible studio bosses and butlers, all wrapped up with newspaper montages and elegant intertitles to charm even the rookie nostalgist.

It works well and the novelty concept of making a silent film to tell this story is clever, furnished with comic asides, a dash of Duke Ellington and a handsomely costumed cast. It is also a stroke of genius in itself that this is not an art house experiment but a break into the mainstream, attracting press coverage and award season glory. Although maybe that's Harvey Weinstein's genius, coupled with that of the dog (oh hi, Asta).

Unfortunately however, Hazanavicius' style doesn't always fit, taking the swing out of The Artist's thing somewhat. In creating a love letter to the late silent era, he gently apes its spirit, but seems to have wavered along the way. The result is a compromise, not reaching back to the 1920s, but rather settling for a generic 'classic' look. Instead of the urgent inventiveness of the best silent movies, The Artist has more in common with the poised studio-era films of the 40s and 50s, just with the sound removed. Chronology takes a bit of a hit too – had Valentin really not seen nor even heard of sound film until 1929, when hit musicals were already being released?

There are certainly times when things click. The silent films-within-the-film are fun (up there with the best of Lockwood and Lamont), and occasionally the old-school box of tricks is opened. At one point, chattering mouths materialize around the screen to taunt Valentin, and there is a rather brilliant surrealist moment when the soundtrack terrorizes him after his first exposure to synchronized sound.

Meanwhile, bursts of spirited Cotton Club jazz punctuate Ludovic Bource's impressive score. But the score, lush and romantic, again suffers mildly from period wanderlust. When a section of Bernard Herrmann's music for Vertigo appears, it sits comfortably in a way it shouldn't. It is a puzzling moment. The music is gorgeous of course, but why is it used here? It makes one wonder if other references, to the likes of The Battleship Potemkin, are little more than a film school checklist.

All of this is maybe beside the point in the midst of an enjoyable ride. It might all be a glossy surface, with a story not quite original or snappy enough to dispel every gripe, but The Artist is fun to watch. The actors, including Dujardin, John Goodman and James Cromwell, help enormously. Most special of all is Bejo. Peppy is a charming and believable creation – her winning smile caps a delicate tragicomic performance, with which Bejo steals the film. The final scene is a hoot, too. We come out smiling. Perhaps The Artist is not a love letter after all, but a winking postcard.

7.5