In this year of the 85th annual Oscars, perhaps rewarding The Artist is the most fitting way the Academy could pay homage to its past: no film so exuberantly celebrates Hollywood's past with anywhere near as much genuine affection as The Artist does.
Think of it this way: The Artist is Singin' in the Rain, except from the point of view of the silents. That film exuberantly celebrates Hollywood's transition from silents to sound with singing, dancing and much amusement. The Artist reminds us that the transition wasn't that simple, yet still manages much amusement, and even a musical number or two.
Jean Dujardin plays George Valentin, a top box office draw in the twenties who is enjoying the premiere of his latest action adventure flick when the film opens. The opening itself is such a celebration of movies and moviegoing that it makes the first fifteen minutes a capsule of America's history with and love of the movies. When the film shifts from showing us Valentin's film to showing the audience's joy in watching it (and the details of the palace where they sit for it), a whole capsule of our lives as audience is thrown into the mix.
Valentin accepts the audience's accolades, then steps out front for a photo op with the Hollywood press, when a young nobody is pushed out of the crowd; she is Peppy Miller, the embodiment of "you're going out there a nobody, but coming back a star." It turns out she works as an extra on the picture lot where Valentin works, and she winds up with a key bit in his next film, which eventually catapults her into her own starring roles. Especially when it turns out that she is ideal for the new talking pictures.
While Peppy rises, George falls; he resists the transition to sound, determined to show that ther's still a place for silent films and silent film acting. When his self produced (and written and directed) star turn fails miserably, Valentin falls from grace, losing his wife, his mansion, his millions, and every shred of his dignity. All he has is his devoted dog, and his devoted manservant.
And Peppy. When George nearly dies in a drunken haze, starting a fire in his smal sad apartment, it's Peppy who swoops in to nurse him back to health. And, just when George seems liely to yet again flee from the talking pictures, it's Peppy who convinces him to take a chance and do the thing he's always wanted to do: sing and dance.
From start to finish, The Artist exudes such confidence and joy that it's utterly irresistible, which probably explains why it has won such critical acclaim, starting at Cannes this past year. The film is black and white and silent (except for a small dream sequence and the winning finale), yet it feels fresh and new and vital throughout. Dujardin is utterly charming as Valentin, with the ease of Doug Fairbanks and Errol Flynn, and dashing old style male movie star glamour. Berenice Bejo, as Peppy, is even more wondrous, a youngster who makes the rise to stardom utterly believable and true, while looking smashing in the twenties era outfits. Add to that the solid, reliable work of John Goodman as the Studio's head, and James Cromwell as Valentin's loyal manservant, and you've got a great mix.
Writer/Director Michel Hazanavicius has delivered a work so assured its astonishing that it's really his first foray into such a major work and that it works so incredibly well, drawing on all kinds of classic cinematic references, including harking back all the way to Oscar's only silent film Best Picture, 1927's Wings. It would be similar genius to see this film take Best Picture. I'm not sure The Academy is quite brilliant enough to see that... but if anyone can win them over, this one can. Don't miss it.
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