I was introduced to Billy Wilder’s exceptional film noir Sunset Boulevard (allegedly loosely based on real-life silent actress Norma Talmadge) around eight years ago - the film painted a stark, scathing portrait of Hollywood as told from the perspective of an ageing star of the silent screen.

When I read the synopsis for The Artist, I couldn’t help but draw parallels. Also a film about the ‘has-been’ status a silent-film superstar (French actor Jean Dujardin) faces with the advent of the talkies, the film, from its trailers, seemed as though equal parts love letter to Hollywood’s silent era and melodramatic retelling of films like Sunset Boulevard and Singin’ in the Rain… with a bit of Chaplin thrown into the mix.

Of course, my love for melodrama aside, what really put the film on my must-watch list (and this predates its much-deserved Oscar nods) was the Jean Dujardin-Michel Hazanavicius combo, which previously worked wonders in the OSS 117 series (aka Europe’s answer to Austin Powers - now available on Blu-ray with English subtitles!)… but mostly Jean Dujardin, whose comedic talents had me hooked from his Un Gars, Un Fille days.

And so I began watching Hazanavicius’ novelty item of a film, ready for a 100-minute homage to ‘the Fairbanks, the Gilberts, the Valentinos’ - and to an era perhaps remembered best by Mel Brooks’ 1976 satire Silent Movie.
As the credits roll, what astounds you the most is that The Artist isn’t about the novelty or the gimmick; despite its stunning visual style, a brilliant, brilliant score, despite all the elements that constitute a winning period piece, at its heart the film is an old-fashioned, charming, poignant romance… one where, as clichéd as this may sound, you cannot wait for the hero and heroine to finally get together.

This is a silent film, yes, but far as emotion goes, it speaks volumes.

The Plot: It’s the late ‘20s in Hollywoodland and George Valentin (Dujardin) is celebrating the success of his latest silent-film A Russian Affair. A chance encounter with aspiring actress Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo) outside his premiere propels the latter to audition for a dancing bit-part at Kinograph Studios, headed by Al Zimmer (John Goodman) - a role she secures with a little nudge from Valentin. Two years later, when Zimmer announces the end of production of silent movies, it spells major movie stardom for Miller, but for Valentin, who dismisses the notion of talkies, the decision turns his career - and his life - upside-down. How their destinies are intertwined forms the crux of The Artist.

It’s hard to pinpoint any flaws in a film of this caliber - you’re hooked from its classic opening credits sequence. I will say, however, that the lack of dialogue (only intertitles appear intermittently) might initially have you trying to lip-read what the actors are ‘saying’. The style takes an odd 10-minutes or so to get used to, but once you’ve settled in to the format of storytelling, there’s really no looking back.

Of course, then there’s also those who might feel the film emphasizes on aesthetics and form over its basic rise-and-fall plot; you might find its proverbial ‘happily ever after’ inevitable and commercial, but in that regard I feel the film never pretends to be something it’s not… it’s there to dazzle you with an astounding recreation of a bygone era, and to delight you with an abundance of drama, laughter, some slapstick and dance… infuse a general joie-de-vivre. It’s a film that makes its way to your heart, makes you smile and rejoice in its simplicity. How many movies - romantic comedies in particular - in recent times can claim that?

There are several (hundred?) sequences in The Artist that bring to mind the best of its showcased era: notice Valentin and Miller tap-dancing on either side of the ‘screen’ in the film’s initial reels; Valentin attempting to put a smile on his wife’s face with some mimicry; his harrowing nightmare-in-sound (one of the few instances where the background score gives way to actual sound)… or even a poignant quicksand sequence in Valentin’s self-financed ‘Tears of Love’ - which more than alludes to the death of the silent-film era. Then there are sequences sans any intertitles, where the director urges his audience to use their imagination and construct dialogue on their own (judging from expression and style of delivery)… also the schmaltzy but insanely satisfying climax, which in my opinion employed the best use of the intertitles… I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover the many brilliant scenes, both melodramatic and subtle, in this gem of a movie.

The film belongs to its three leads: Jean Dujardin, who infuses both charisma-to-spare and pathos in his performance; Bérénice Bejo, who plays the starlet bitten by the Hollywood bug and woman hopelessly in love to the hilt… and Uggie, the dog, who astonishes us with his tricks and his bond with master Valentin. For all of you reading this, Uggie takes us back to early Sooraj Barjatiya films (Maine Pyaar Kiya, Hum Aapke Hain Kaun, anyone?) where animals played as crucial a role in the plot as their human counterparts. The chemistry between the two leads is palpable... which makes this a romance (between two people representing two very different sides of cinema) worth rooting for. I can’t praise Dujardin enough, who quite literally tap-dances his way into audiences’ hearts; he embodies the grace of silent film-stars like Rudolph Valentino (with a pencil moustache to boot) and matches it with his own comic flair. As for Bejo, those eyes… they belong with the best of the silent-movie sirens; expressive, evocative, exceptional.

It would be criminal to complete a review for The Artist without mentioning the contribution of French composer Ludovic Bource - the score is dramatic when needs be, Chaplin-esque in some, tense and subtle in other scenes, but never overbearing. The cinematography and art direction deserve every award thrown their way.

‘I am big. It’s the pictures that got small’ says the forgotten silent-screen diva Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. After watching The Artist, you can’t help but wonder if she had a point; whether we lost a certain celluloid magic when we shifted to talkies.

I mean, how else do you explain being absolutely riveted by a motion picture with practically no dialogue - and leave thoroughly entertained?

The Rolling Stone really couldn’t have put it any better when they said The Artist is ‘everything we go to the movies for.’ Michel Hazanavicius, take a bow, you’ve done cinema a solid.

As for its actors, specifically Jean Dujardin, let’s just put it this way: A Star is Born… in Hollywood.

— Osman Khalid Butt

*CINEMATIC SUICIDE
**FORGETTABLE
***WATCHABLE
****COLLECTIBLE
*****AWARD-WORTHY