Some things are best left unspoken.

Rating: 9/10 (27 January 2012)

The Artist actually does all the things that it shouldn't be doing if it wants to appeal to the generic herd of moviegoers - monochrome, silent and not consisting of any cinematic behemoth to carry the mantle of wooing the audiences. It is undeniable that the allure of a black-and- white film of the silent era remains highly esoteric. 'It died for a reason,' one might say. 'Sound killed it.' Agreed. But the fact that The Artist does better than almost all the other movies of the year comes across as a rather delightful irony.
The transition of movies from silence to sound has been remarkably captured through the various perspectives of a plethora of those affected by Singin' in the Rain and Sunset Boulevard, to name two. The Artist seems inspired from the former, with its quirky sense of humour and all, while has a protagonist who shares the dogma of Norma Desmond as far as 'talkie' movies are concerned. The man is George Valentin (Jean Dujardin), a conceited, debobair, illustrious actor of an era where facial contortions and subtitles did most of the talking. While celebrating the success of his latest movie, he bumps into Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), who later turns into the luckiest of his throngs of worshippers. There is the spark of romance there, but that flame is left unkindled, since Valentin is married to Doris (Penelope Ann Miller) despite rather unhappily. But his tidal wave of confidence soon tosses him ashore with the introduction of sound in cinema, with Peppy being one of the harbingers of the winds of change. With the writing on the wall being all too clear, it is Valentin's amore-propre that blinds him, as the zeitgeist sweeps through like a storm, leaving him stripped of everything but his vanity, as the artist now has to learn the artform of survival.
The movie is like a monologue of how change is inevitable and how we must adapt or get run-over by it. It preaches this lesson by drawing parallels between the old and new. The initial comparison is between wordless movies and cinema after the inception of sound and how the unfortunate former perished at the hands of sound. However, this comparison is also personified, as it betrays the appearance of a metaphor between the characters of George and Peppy - the former an imploding star, the latter a new sunrise. 'Out with the old, in with the new. Make way for the young!' Peppy says, as George overhears her. Just like soundless movies were annihilated out of existence unceremoniously, George realizes that it might be his turn to suffer the same fate if he doesn't embrace the change.
The performances are fabulous, with a special mention going out the dog, who deserves the honour of being the best canine I have ever seen. Dujardin with his pencil moustache gives his act a certain authenticity, while the gregarious, affectionate Peppy is right in her shoes. The differences brought about in the acting, as compared to regular movies due to the absence of a voice are palpable - subtlelties are paid special attention to, physical movements flow like a cadence and the eyes convey most of the emotions. Though the acting might seem overdone, with all the accentuation and exaggerated movements, one must remember that it does justice to its requirements and to history, and is hence befits the film.
But the movie has its shortcomings, some of which are too blatant to ignore. Primary of these is the rather hackneyed storyline. If you want a movie that talks about what a silent-movie-icon goes through once sound is introduced, you need to look no further than Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard. The only thing that movie did different from The Artist is track the downfall of its protagonist into insanity, while The Artist doesn't go that far. The parallel subplot about a youngling shooting to stardom as another falls has also been done before, though not to death (A Star is Born, for instance). So, that's hardly a surprise too.
Since the film begins as a comedy, and masquerades like one for a sizeable proportion of its run-time (heck, it won the Golden Globe for Best Picture Comedy), once it gradually descends into a tragedy, The Artist fails to get its viewers along, who happen to get stuck in a limbo between laughter and sympathy at the protagonist's fate. The seriousness that one needs to empathize with Valentin is amiss because the movie begins on too much of an upbeat note. This failure, arising from trying to balance on two rafts at the same time, unfortunately, makes it a case of being lost in transition.
The Artist isn't merely a movie with a message, it is also an ode to movies of the day when Hollywood was popular as Hollywoodland. The movie exudes an air of the late 1920s and early 1930s - every third man wearing bowler hats, the paparazzi hobbling around with archaic cameras, movies that ended as soon as the director got bored of shooting. The film has a panache, a vivacity, that one rarely gets to see in modern times. However, the salute is accomplished when the film makes its final move - outdoing most other films of the year in terms of excellence, which shows that Valetin, actually, might have been right.