The Artist (2011)

There was a time when films could be great without the need for speech, it was a time when cinema was young and developing, and the film’s stars were projected on to the screen in only two colours: black and white. It is this era which Michel Hazanavicius’s “The Artist” takes us back to. Not that this film intends to glorify the silent era of film, or parody such greats of the period such as Chaplin’s “The Gold Rush” or  F.W Murnau’s “Sunrise.” No, The Artist is a silent film about the death of silent film, a comedy-drama with an injection of tragedy.  

Let’s be frank though, the modern world is out of touch with the films of the silent era, and why wouldn’t we be? With so much to be offered by the power of sound. Whether it be the choppers of the US army laying waste to a Vietnamese village whilst The Ride of the Valkyries blares in Apocalypse Now,  the whine of Charles Bronson’s harmonica in Once Upon a Time in the West or even the lingering echo of a gunshot climaxing The French Connection.

Stripped of speech the audience is left exposed to a very pure film, amplified by absorbing performances and stunning black and white imagery (at a snug 1.33:1 aspect ratio) with a relatable story which is guaranteed to engage modern audiences.

It begins in 1927. George Valentin, played by French actor Jean Dujardin, is the hottest (silent) film star in Hollywood (land). He lives with his needy and spoiled wife Doris and his co-star/pet dog in an enormous Beverly Hills mansion, driven by his devoted chauffeur Clifton (James Cromwell) across town. 

By chance the young Peppy Miller (Hazanavicius’s wife, Bérénice Bejo) crosses paths with Valentin during a media frenzy, and her chance encounter with valentine acts as a catalyst for her nonexistent film career. She lands a part as an extra on Valentin’s next feature film, “A German Affair,” and the two opposites – the dashing celebrity and the wannabe starlet – draw up a chemistry which is believable and heart-warming

It is when Valentin stubbornly refuses to venture into the “talkies” that the film takes a U-turn. Simultaneously as Miller’s career blossoms with the aid of talking pictures, Valentin’s falls apart. The Studio exec Al Zimmer (played fittingly by the great John Goodman) lets Valentin off the hook and so he ventures into a self-funded project called “Tears of Love” – a silent adventure, written, produced and directed by the star.

Before long Valentin’s wife has left, and with the stock market crash, his money disappears, soon he loses his home and when “Tears of Love” flops, Valentin is crushed. The talkies prevail and Dujardin has lost his place in the changing world. His era – the 20s – has come to an end, and the 30s has begun. In this new era, he is out of place and struggles like so many others to push on.

Jean dujardin is flawless in his portrayal of Valentin, his greatest skill here is his ability to make us smile and sympathise for him; he has an incredible ability to transform the mood of a single scene with  body language, be it a facial expression or a hand movement. Bejo too shines as Peppy Miller with a wonderful and heartfelt performance. The story of Bejo’s Miller is one of youth and vanity and the pleasures of fame; which clashes with Valentin’s tale of a vanished heyday, the pain of forgotten fame and blending back into the ordinary world of the ‘nobody.’

One of the film’s greatest scenes plays out before Valantin’s life begins to fall apart. It is a scene which twists the lack of regular sounds and dialogue around, poking fun at the film’s own format. In what turns out to be a nightmare, Valentin sits in front of his dressing room mirror, playing with the items on his desk. He notices they make sounds when they hit the surface, we hear them with him. Shocked, he knocks them all over to clatters and spills and attempts to speak, but no words come out his mouth; he is stuck in silence. The dog barks and he runs outside where a group of dancing-extras nosily pass him, giggling, then a feather falls behind them and when it lightly hits the ground, it does so with an earth-shattering bang. It is a scene which is both humorous and tragic because it is a premonition of the fate of Valentin’s career and an in-sight into his future. The obvious subtext being that he has no place in a world so full of noise.

Valentin’s art form is silence, and stripped from it he is bare and pointless in an environment hit with depression. What’s more is he witnesses the woman whose career he ignited slip into his shoes in a new decade; and the transformation from star to wannabe between the two leads switches.

With the likes of Cromwell, Goodman and even (for a brief moment) Malcolm McDowell to fall back on, The Artist barely falters, not even with a Jack Russell as one of its key players.

Given also that the film was made on a $15 million budget, this is surprising; not many filmmakers could make a feature set in the 20s/30s on such a low budget, and even less could do it so well. The sets here feel real, not digitally-enhanced or fake in any way; just ordinary. The Artist is also well-shot, clean-looking well composed images drive it; and the look does not imitate that of the ‘oldies’ – which is always a threat with such films – but manages to feel old-fashioned in spirit rather than specifically in look. Of course, in black and white the film is beautiful. Had this been a period drama, with no humour and shot in colour, then the film’s charm would be lost. Here is where the credit falls onto Michel Hazanavicius, whose finished vision for The Artist is at once refreshing, charming and heart-breaking.

Perhaps the greatest strength of The Artist is the freedom it bestows upon the viewer. With no dialogue, save what we read in the intertitles, the audience is in a unique position to read further into every aspect of the film. Every movement by its characters, every glance and every action seems relevant to the film as a whole. Take for example the premier of Valentin’s doomed “Tears of Love” in a nearly-empty cinema screen. Up high Miller watches with tears in her eyes as Valentin’s character sinks slowly into a sandpit. At the back of the room, Valentin watches, his arrogant smile stripped from him as his screen alter-ego is consumed by the earth. What might have otherwise been comical or ridiculous is made heart-breaking. Seeing his character’s hand slip into the sand and disappear seems to symbolise Valentin’s career and his future.

There is also a wider relevance to be considered with The Artist, set against the great depression; it feels like a film very much at home in this day and age. The Western World is once again on the brink of economic turmoil, a new-depression looms uncertainly in front of us, and perhaps this is why Hazanavicius went for such a transitional period in our history for his film. Valentin’s downfall feels relatable. When stripped of his glory he feels akin to the modern man. And here we are now, in 2012, a jobless and often-bleak time – how different are the people of our generations? Our futures too seem foggy. At one point in the film, Valentin’s wife says to him, “I’m unhappy George,” to which he replies, “So are millions of us.”The message in The Artist is that perhaps we are all venerable, and for Valentin, it is his pride which threatens to devour his life. In the end it is a film about old and new; success and failure; fame and redemption, and how pride can destroy a man.

The Artist should hold up fine in modern cinema without the use of speech because, it seems, silence is as effective. God knows we’ve seen the power that the removal of sound from a film can have – look at The Coen Brothers, some of their finest works have featured little in terms of sound, No Country For Old Men runs on near dialogue-less, cat-and-mouse suspense. Then there’s the absorbing opening sequence of Their Will be Blood – not a word. Move further forward to Steve McQueen’s hunger, and Nicholas Winding-Refn’s Drive, both use the power of silence in part to great effective.

Then, of course, there’s the other end of the stick. 2010 and 2011 saw both The Social Network and The King’s Speech, both of which managed to grip audiences by effective use of the spoken word. Moving further back and who can forget Matt Damon’s “Why shouldn’t I work for the N.S.A?” monologue in Good Will Hunting? Or the back-and-forth of early Tarantino? The opening scene of The Godfather?

Though spectacular, perhaps it is not more silent films like The Artist we need; maybe it’s more creativity in the films we see. Silent films should not become the next Hollywood phase such as 3-D; what’s so good about The Artist is that it is refreshing to watch, it’s dramatic and funny; one of those rare films that comes along every once in awhile, out of nowhere, whose effect cannot and should not be manufactured.