The Artist

The film everyone is talking about does incidentally consist of no talking itself. As a silent film, Michel Hazanavicius's The Artist has become the most unlikely of Oscar frontrunners, but has been universally loved by critics and is currently the bookies' favourite to win Best Picture at the prestigious awards ceremony. And for good reason, for The Artist truly is a special film.

The Artist is a knowing but loving homage to silent film. Set during the last few years of the silent film era, we are introduced to Hollywood superstar George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) who has just starred in yet another major hit. But as the new breed of talkie films take off, Valentin's studio loses faith in him at the expense of a new generation of stars, one of whom is Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo's) of whom Valentin met and shared immediate chemistry with at the start of the film. As his career falters her's flourishes, but their touching mutual affection ensures that they continue to look out for each other even as their lives appear to drift apart.

Despite its obscure form The Artist is, perhaps surprisingly, a very accessible, unpretentious crowd pleaser. And its virtues as such are countless: it succeeds in expressing a celebratory, feel-good tone throughout, leaving a permanent smile on the faces of everyone watching; the two protagonists are charmingly loveable and aided by superb performances by their actors, with Bejo oozing an exuberant star quality and good-natured love of life, and Dujardin successfully conveying an astonishing range of emotion with simple twitches of his mouth and eyebrows (the reappearance of his joyful smile after a long absence is the film's most touching moment); there are several genuine laugh out load moments of warm, innocent humour; the score is excellent; the scenes are beautifully shot in black and white; its story is simple yet poignant; Valentin's pet dog is adorable. Perhaps the only criticism is that the story does maybe begin to drag a little towards the end, but this is quickly forgotten about in the midst of a final sequence that is at once breathtaking, intelligent, and irresistibly heart warming.

And then there are of course the more artistic elements of the film. The layers of films within films are played with frequently, with scenes of Valentin and Miller rehearsing used develop the pair's relationship, scenes of Valentin watching his own movies, and at the end where the boundaries between the various layers of films are blurred even more. Like Scorsese's recent release Hugo, The Artist is a film that harks back to the bygone days of early cinema, and Hazanavicius is both respectful and learned of the conventions of those films. But at the same time he plays knowingly with the silence, with visual cues like the well trained dog's tricks and the audience clapping used to both inform and tease the audience. The best scene of the film is a disorientating dream sequence that occurs about halfway into the film when Valentin is becoming increasingly anxious about the onset of talkie pictures, and features the first instances of sound as Valentin and the audience alike are overwhelmed by its sudden onslaught, and are relieved when he wakes up and the status quo of silence reassumes.

Above all, The Artist succeeds as it achieves the perfect balance between feel-food entertainment and clever pastiche. It fulfils both the part of our brain that wishes to be thrilled and amused as in a melodrama, and that which wishes to be intellectually stimulated as in an art film. That Hazanavicius has pulled off a silent film in the 21st century is already impressive enough; that it is such a good film on so many other levels ensures that it is likely go down as a classic of modern cinema.

The Artist is showing at York City Screen. For more information, click here

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