The Artist (2011)

"Quiet, please!"

I feel completely naked right now. Every time I've reviewed something up until now I've taken notes while watching (meaning much use of the pause button), and referred to them while tying out my review. But I saw this at the cinema, where making notes is not exactly an option. So I'm naked, without a safety net, swimming without water wings, or whatever metaphor you prefer.

Incidentally, I saw this at the Phoenix Square cinema in Leicester, a rather excellent little place, somewhat arty, and just around the corner from one of my favourite little watering hols, the Ale Wagon. Not only does it have a bar, not only does it do Boddingtons, but you can take your pint of Boddies in with you to see the film. Result.

The film is, let's not wait before saying it, completely bloody brilliant, and entirely deserving of its Oscar, although I would have thought it might be a little light-hearted for the Academy's tastes. The whole thing looks gorgeous: Michel Hazanavicious does rather a lot of very things with the camera. The film just bulges with sumptuous 1920's-ness; the cars, the clothes- everything from the opening titles onwards evokes the period in a way that films made in the actual 1920's, when all this stuff was ordinary and mundane, don't. The cast is superb, too, with Jean Dujardin being another deserving winner, accurately portraying a strangely period kind of matinee idol charm while also evoking the pathos of a proud man humiliated, all while showing a superb sense of comedy. He does all these things, and yet George Valentin (bit of a nod to Rudolph with the name there...) comes across as a coherent and nuanced character. Really, there are people in this world far less fortunate than a washed-up ex-actor whose diminished lifestyle would arguably still be the envy of many, especially during the Great Depression, and Valentin really is a proud, arrogant and self-centrede git. And yet he fully retains our sympathy in spite of all this, and even the attempt at suicide feels both real and horrifying.

Bérénice Bejo (the director's missus) is superb too in a role that demands her to convince as an A-list star while also showing us the real enthusiasm and the big heart that lies underneath. It sort of helps that she happens to be gorgeous.

But the best thing about the film is how damned clever it is. There are few things I enjoy in a film more than a bit of metatextual fun, and that's exactly what this film is about- a "love letter to Hollywood" that wallows in all the glamour of cinema while also showing us the tragedy of what happens to those who have finished their time in the Sun, and how cruelly they are cast off.

The opening scene, a scene within a scene from A Russian Affair, features Valentin being tortured and refusing to talk. This is, obviously, pretty much a metaphor for everything he does in the film. Just before his wife leaves him she's most upset at him for his refusal to talk to her. In every way possible, he refuses to talk, and this underlines just how thoroughly and suddenly he's been sidelined by the arrival of the talkies.

My favourite scene and, I suspect, most people's favourite scene, is the dream sequence where sound (though not dialogue!) suddenly intrudes, with his glass thudding on to the table and a feather falling to the ground with an almighty crash. Sound is what Valentin most fears.

Only at the end are we told why as he utters his only line of dialogue in a pronounced French accent, which is if anything even more meta. And the last few seconds of the film feature a cacophony of voices calling for quiet.

A splendid film, then, marred only by the parking ticket I got from some bastard traffic warden. I strongly recommend you go and see it, but be careful where you park!