The Artist (2011)

Directed by Michel Hazanavicius; produced by Thomas Langmann

At the top of his profession, silent-film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) loves his work. He enjoys making movies, he enjoys the adulation, he enjoys his life. But as the 1920s draw to a close, two things arrive to disrupt that most satisfactory existence: bright and ambitious young actress Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), and talkies.

There isn’t much wrong with this superb motion picture. It is a (mostly) silent film about the coming of sound to Hollywood. It may be seen as a companion-piece to Singin’ in the Rain: an examination of the time period from the other side. While both films might be considered light-hearted, they are also heart-felt. Despite being filmed in black-and-white and almost without sound (except for music), it is not a satire of silent-films, but a valentine to them, a demonstration of just how well they worked.

The plot is a melodrama straight out of the Silent Era, though its likes have been carried forward to the present day, even to the third remake of A Star is Born. Superficially (both in appearance and career-progression), Valentin resembles real-life actor John Gilbert, while his movies are more reminiscent of Douglas Fairbanks’s. That The Artist is a melodrama should be seen as in no way a detriment, as the story is sincere and well-crafted.

There are, throughout the movie, parallel but closely connected storylines, Valentin’s career crumbling and Miller’s building. Yet alongside these events, the two characters maintain an interest in each other, supporting each other if only from afar.

The actors are excellent. The two leads have a winning chemistry, perhaps formed in an earlier film – OSS 117: Cairo, Nest of Spies – also directed by Hazanavicius. Both players have an almost immediate charm, which allows you to like their characters and support them, without being blind to their flaws. The players must, necessarily, be able to act with the slightest of expressions, and this they do, Dujardin especially. There is a brilliant little sequence when performance and direction combine to open a window into Peppy’s mind and heart as Bejo acts opposite a tail-coat.

The leads are backed up by a number of fine if subdued performances. John Goodman plays the head of the fictional Kinograph Motion Pictures (a man who would probably like to be a ruthless cinema mogul but isn’t enough of a jerk); Penelope Ann Miller has a thankless role as Valentin’s wife; James Cromwell is his devoted chauffeur; Ed Lauter as a butler, and Malcolm McDowell in a tiny (dare I say it?) non-speaking part as an extra awaiting an audition. And I can’t forget Uggy, as Valentin’s beloved dog.

While the likeability of the stars influences their characters, they, in turn, influence the audience. Valentin undoubtedly has an ego – he has a life-size portrait of himself (with his dog) in the hall of his house – but he is also cheerful and friendly, with a nice word and a joke even for the stage-hands at the studio, and despite temptations, he remains faithful to his wife, though their marriage is moribund.

Also, Valentin’s love for his craft is apparent (hence the movie’s title). At the premiere of his latest film, he is shown watching the movie from behind the screen: on his face is the quiet happiness felt by everyone who has accomplished something both enjoyable and good.

Whether intended or not, Valentin and Peppy Miller are very similar. Miller’s rise in Hollywood during Valentin’s descent feeds both her ego and clear desire for attention, yet she is quick to regret any slight she might inadvertently make.

And lastly, the direction, which is faultless. Whether Hazanavicius (who also wrote the screenplay) could pull off another such complete and involving movie I cannot determine, but his touch here is deft. The manner of direction is a studied tribute to that of the Silent Era. Like films from that time, dialogue cards are used but, again like the Silent Era, they are not, in fact, necessary. As Norma Desmond says in Sunset Boulevard, “We didn’t need dialogue. We had faces.” There are scenes in which Peppy watches Valentin from a distance (and thus effectively without sound), yet is overcome by emotion; another tribute to what made silent movies work.

The Artist can be treated as a movie made just after the advent of sound, looking back at recent events. Sound is utilized but only at imaginative and strategic moments, particularly at the end, when it reveals something about Valentin that might – or might not – have influenced his attitude toward talkies.

The Artist will remain one of my favourite movies, and, if it doesn’t ignite viewers’ interest in silent-films, will surely make them want to see this one again.