Essential Films: The Artist (2011)

When I first saw the 2011 critical hit The Artist, I was halfway through the 10th grade; this was back when I still thought Facebook was worth the hassle and many of my classmates were into vintage fashion and swing dance lessons. As an artistically inclined self-centered hopelessly romantic teenager in that kind of an environment, The Artist was naturally a perfect fit for me and it instantly became one of my ten favorite films. But over time, it gradually slipped out of my top ten list and now I would be hard pressed to consider it as even one of my twenty favorite films. However, I've since revisited The Artist, and although it seems a tad melodramatic, its diminishing emotional grip on me has more to do with the fact that I've changed as a person; the film itself has essentially remained the same. I say all this, not because my personal experiences hold any weight in assessing the quality of the film, but because I believe that many people have had similar experiences with the movie. Praise for the film seemed unanimous when it initially played in theaters, but now, it seems like those who saw it tend to look back on it as one of those films where the critics gave the film way more credit than it deserved. Even some the critics have slowly turned on the film themselves, claiming that it was perfect Oscar bait for the time because it was "different without being challenging or worrying"¹. Now, I can understand the frustration with the Academy Awards-- it takes time for us, as a culture, to figure out which films deserve to be considered classics, so proclaiming a picture "Best Film of the Year" just months after its release can often produce some fairly ridiculous results. But while I certainly agree that The Artist wasn't the best film of the year, I'm kind of glad that it won Best Picture because the award serves to bring the film the recognition that it deserves. Because despite how simple it may seem, this is a challenging film-- the challenge is not in the story itself, but in the format. Modern audiences must challenge themselves to have the patience to sit through a film which is not only black-and-white but also silent in the sense that it is without audible dialogue, and furthermore, the filmmakers have the challenge of trying to structure the film in such a way that it will help audiences adjust to the different format. So, in a way, this movie was the disadvantaged underdog from the start, and in some ways, it is kind of a miracle that it managed to snag Best Picture. It's a perfect example of creators and audiences meeting each other halfway: it's supposed to be an intersection between high and low culture. The critics should enjoy it because of the inventive ways in which it works with the format, and the common audiences should enjoy it because of the simple and appealing story. Sadly, while the film may have achieved brief success, it seems that over time the audiences have ignored it because of its challenging format, and the critics have ignored it because of its simplistic story. In the same way, I found that I've become far less passionate about it than I once was-- but as I've said, this is not the film's fault. I find  The Artist is less emotionally moving with each viewing, but that's only because I've become familiar with the plot, and knowing what's going to happen removes a lot of the tension that really pulls on you the first time you see it. What has convinced me of this film's classic potential is that with each viewing, I've noticed small details and layers of mastery which have led me to respect the film more. So, in as few words as possible, I would like to try to share with you what I've found in persuading you to watch this movie for the first time, or at least give it a second chance, in hopes that you'll come to see it as the true modern classic that it is.

The first complaint that people seem to have about The Artist has to do with its basic plot: namely, that it's too simple, and that it doesn't have the originality, subtlety, and nuance that a truly great film should. And in a way, they're right-- this is a movie about actors; I mean, it basically lifts its entire premise from Singin' in the Rain: a silent star falls under hard luck when he is forced to cope with the advent of sound. And while I'm just as tired as everyone else is with movies about movies, I think the very clear-cut and generally predictable plot of this movie is justified. The film knows that we're all familiar with the story, and so it has to find unconventional ways of telling that story to keep us interested. The brilliance of the filmmaking techniques justifies the story, in a way, and that's what makes this movie feel so fresh and enjoyable, despite how bland it would be if it were told in any other format. Hence the film becomes kind of like a card tower: if they hadn't done it perfectly, the entire thing would come crashing down. This is because the director not only has to persuade the audience to be interested in the familiar story, but he also has to persuade them to adjust to an unfamiliar format. Michael Hazanavicius leads us into the story with a movie-within-the-movie. The audience is watching a silent film. But as we soon see, the silence is not just contained to the screen, but also to the entire world surrounding it, and he alerts us to this fact by having the music end at just the right moment, so that when the audience breaks out in applause, we receive pure silence precisely where we would expect to hear the most noise, and in a moment we are subconsciously alerted to the kind of experience we're going to be getting from this film. The story is paced so perfectly that it not only persuades you; it flat-out seduces you. There are many more instances where the director plays with this format he's adopted: he uses homages to silent directors like Fritz Lang to establish himself as knowing the rules of the game, and then he goes on to break those rules. In the absence of dialogue, the story is told through the visuals: behind the broad and obvious gestures of the actors, we get subtle visual clues to what's going on through movie posters which mirror the events in the plot, as in one instance where a film poster reads "The Thief of Her Heart" in the middle of a scene where the two romantic leads share a tender moment. But beyond the mere clever gags the film draws your attention to, it also wants you to take notice of those moments within the film that can't be expressed through words: unforgettable moments like the coat scene, or the man's reflection in the tuxedo, or this darkly comic moment of brilliant foreshadowing.

This connects to what I believe is one of the central ideas of the film: that silence allows for a certain kind of expression and communication that is ignored in regular cinema. This answers, I believe, the second complaint that people have with this film. They complain that they believe the film is a silent film as a gimmick; a trick devised to draw attention to the film. But whether a concept is a gimmick or a tool depends on how it's used: and what it all comes down to is whether or not the idea is necessary for the plot. I've felt that some modern films which similarly employ a certain degree of silence do it, not because they need to, but rather, because they can. The Artist, on the other hand, wouldn't work without silence, and I say that not as an insult to the film, but rather, as a compliment to it. Just as the format the story, the story also justifies and necessitates the format: they are inseparably linked, interdependent. But what is it about the content that makes the style so important? Well, why is the film called The Artist to begin with? It's a vague title that could be applied to quite a few other films, and I'm sure there are plenty of other titles that might fit this film better: The Actor, The Star, and so on, and so forth. But the title is important because it leads us to examine acting not as a skill or a feat of endurance, but instead, as a form of artistic expression. The art which the actor produces is not the film, but the performance within the film. Silent films allowed for a very physically expressive type of acting, relying on pantomime rather than speech to communicate. Writing on the film, David Denby of the The New Yorker reflects on the acting of the day: "The stories of silent drama may often have been elemental, yet, within the broad outlines, the artists among the actors could bring out shadings that had no immediate analogue in language... Almost by necessity, silent acting was devoted to dramatizing the unconscious-- hidden lust, the struggles between desire and principle, between one loyalty and another."² This is a talent that George Valentin, the main character of the film, has worked very hard to develop, and it's how he's come to express himself. He is afraid of talking pictures not because he is a purist, but because they will draw attention away from his abilities as a performer. Thus, the film embraces two meanings for silence, which interact paradoxically: through silence, he can speak. But in the world of speech, he realizes he is unable to express himself, trapped in silence. Some have criticized the film for being too clean and glossy in its aesthetic, as many films in the silent era presented a more raw, passionate experience for the audience. However, The Artist seeks not to be a carbon copy of the traditional silent film, nor to revive it: instead it exists to point us back to them. This film was actually what led me to explore the work of Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton in the first place. On the surface, The Artist may look like another pretentious film trying to snag awards, but looking at the interviews with the director and the stars, you really start to understand how hard it was to get this idea off the ground, and that when you get down to it, this was a film that was made because of the passion of those who wanted to make it.

Each era in our collective cultural history seems to be accompanied by a different trend in filmmaking. The 50s had the rule-breakers and the French New Wave, and the 70s had its own wave of counter-cultural filmmakers, just as the 90s had a surge of independent films. It may be too soon to say what defines the era of film that we're in now, but I believe that starting somewhere in the mid-to-late 2000s, we slowly began to enter an age of nostalgic cinema. The three best films of 2011 all were reflections on the past, and reflections on the films of the past. Familiar pop culture figures dominate the box office, spawning an endless stream of sequels and prequels. This is not only an artistic trend, but a social and political trend as well. We are scared about the future, and as a result, we are retreating into the past: and if you want proof, let me remind you that we just elected a man whose entire campaign centered around the idea of changing things back to the way they used to be. In fact, acknowledging this troubling "spirit of the times" and how it connects to both movies and politics was probably the best thing about South Park's disastrous Season 20. This is why films like La La Land, which many people believe will win Best Picture this year, concern me. Because it's important to remember the past, but it's all too easy to fall into the trap of getting lost in it. The Artist, along with two other films which also celebrate different eras of film history, serves as a kind of landmark for when we fully entered this era of nostalgia. But nonetheless, I don't think The Artist is entirely nostalgic. It isn't trying to persuade us that the past is necessarily better, instead, it's trying to get us to respect the past. The solution at the film's end is not a call for the return to days gone by, but rather, an encouragement to use what we've gleaned from history to help push us forward into the future... and it's that kind of hope that I wish was more emphasized in similar films. I hope that I've shown that The Artist definitely has a certain degree of intelligence to it; but in the end there's no denying that the film is experienced less in the mind and less in the heart. And even if you don't see it as anything more than a brainless film that just happens to be very charming and enjoyable, at least give it some credit for being a real pleasure to watch.

Sources

¹Thomson, David. "David Thomson on Films: ‘The Artist’ Was Awful—and Other Reasons I’m Not Watching the Oscars". New Republic, https://newrepublic.com/article/100896/84th-academy-award-oscar-artist. Accessed 1 January 2017.

²Denby, David. "The Artist: Notes on a Lost Style of Acting". The New Yorker, 27 Feb. 2012, http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/02/27/the-artists. Accessed 1 January 2017.