The Artist (2011)

The midst of the annual awards season has given cinephiles two tremendous treats in Martin Scorsese's Hugo (2011) and Michel Hazanavicius's The Artist (2011).  While Hugo attempts to redeem the overlooked - outside of introduction to film courses at least - career of film pioneer Georges Méliès, The Artist takes willing viewers back to late 1920s Hollywood as the industry was transitioning from silent film production to early talkies.  Hugo is one of the best films of the year thanks to Scorsese's potent mixture of heartfelt redemption, film history lecture, adventurous dissection of three dimensional space, and support of film preservation.  The Artist, a heartwarming and nostalgic dollop of cinematic whipping cream, never goes beyond the superficial.  

 Admittedly, Hazanavicius's film is formally intoxicating and emotionally affecting.  The moment the 4:3 aspect ratio fades up to a premiere screening of fictional silent film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin)'s latest opus, we are transported back to the days of a cinema defined by flamboyant gesture.  Back to a cinema defined by title cards and a live orchestra.  And back to a cinema housed in ornate picture palaces whose exotic architecture would put most modern museums to shame.  The film finds tremendous (yet, for us, unheard) applause as Valentin milks the crowd, along with his cuddly Jack Russell Terrier, with a post-screening appearance.  When the duo retreats to the street for a red carpet appearance, George accidentally knocks into Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo) and the two share an awkward kiss.  Soon, Peppy finds herself on the front page of Variety while George's film, as his producer (John Goodman) observes, has been buried inside the paper.  

Soon, Peppy uses her new found cultural capital to propel herself into the film industry, just as the studios are beginning to experiment with sound recording technology.  George shrugs off the development and a title card informs us of his thoughts:  "If this is the future, I don't want any part of it."  He leaves his contract at the studio and descends a staircase only to reunite with Peppy, who is ascending the same staircase.  The staging symbolizes the arcs of the characters.  Peppy is a performer willing to explore sound.  She is, after all, a dancer and one of the founding film genres to come out of the exploration of sound was the musical.  George, on the other hand, clings to tradition and pours his savings into another silent film production.  Peppy's star rises while George's crashes along with the stock market.    

The problem with Hazanavicius's filmic Valentine is that it is so terribly familiar, pulling the bulk of its playbook from one of the most beloved films about Hollywood in the history of, well, Hollywood:  Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly's Singin' in the Rain (1952).  On the surface, they both focus on the awkward transition from silents to sound yet the similarities go deeper into the structure of both films.  First, George meets Peppy outside the premiere of his latest film, just like Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly) meets Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds).  Moreover, Peppy and Kathy are not just regular women but devout admirers of their silent film flames.  Finally, the floundering careers of both men - rendered obsolete by audio - are resuscitated by their admirers via the same Deus ex machina:  the musical.  

The cinema scholar in me was both disappointed and whisked away by The Artist.  The plot is familiar and it never attempts to reach the level of formal audacity that Hugo found.  For instance, the interjection of a surreal sound sequence could have been taken even further.  Moreover, I wish Hazanavicius had altered his technique along with the progression of time, as the evolution into sound technology cast long shadows over film form (no more glorious camera movements like those in Murnau's Sunrise!).  I wish he had given his characters more to do than inhabit the stereotypes of the silent era.  In the end, the film seems to perfectly geared towards fair weather cinephiles.  The film is willing to test the waters of the period but never willing to go beyond the tried and true.  

Yet, I also admire the film as a potential introduction, a fun primer to kick off a Film History 101 course with, and a gateway to lead youngsters and newcomers into a deeper appreciation of the medium.  The expressive performances Hazanavicius elicits from the dapper Dujardin and the stunning Bejo are perhaps the film's greatest gift, as both actors are able to embody the silent style of performance perfectly (the film also features James Cromwell, the son of two studio personnel to work through this period in history).  Watching the two of them gives one the impression of the uncanny, I just wish the rest of the film provided that sensation.