David O'ConnellThe Artist
February 17th 2012 03:25
George Valentin (Jean Dupardin), a star of silent cinema at the height of fame, refuses to bend when his director (John Goodman) proclaims the sound era and the advent of ‘talkies’, the way of the future. A chance encounter with a fan, Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo) in full view of an army of press photographers leads to national headlines and a kick-start to her own career on the silver screen.
As the silent era is condemned to the history books, a terminal fall from grace rapidly claims Valentin’s dignity, his standing in Hollywood erased, his wealth dissolving through his fingertips. But watching from the sidelines is the woman who adored him and whose chance encounter with her idol set her on the road to stardom. Can she save Valentin from himself?
Beyond the magnificently judged performance of Dupardin, the strength of The Artist lies in its beguiling simplicity, an ability to stir our emotions whilst paying homage to an era of filmmaking rhapsodised about by a scant few. This wondrous award-winning cinematic gem, which depicts cinemas most radical period of transition with emphasis on one man’s refusal to grasp progress, manages a rare feat – to exceed the ridiculously high expectations established from its Cannes 2011 debut until now.
Director Michel Hazanavicius, helming just his third film after a pair of outlandish Bond spoofs (also starring Dupardin) handles his own material with grace and cinematic style, extracting pitch perfect performances from his supporting cast, especially the gorgeous Bejo (his real-life wife).
The Artist (2011) shines in direct comparison with Martin Scorsese’s latest offering Hugo (2011), another film fostering a deep-felt love for a forgotten era that relied on far more modest technological assistance to make cinematic dreams come true. In fact, The Artist, a far superior and emotionally satisfying experience, serves to illuminate the myriad shortcomings of Hugo, a film cluttered with superfluous, irritatingly dim or self-consciously eccentric supporting players who jar against the feel's hard-earned, slowly-evolving nostalgic charms.
There’s a purity of intent and, more importantly, spirit to Hazanavicius’s film, and these qualities, enwrapped in a joie de vivre, solidify its greatness. With the sprightly, crisp accompaniment of Ludovic Bource’s spectacular, energised score, running a gamut of emotions with the wealth of themes stocked in his armour, the film soars to the height of great, transformative art.
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