Here’s my verdict of The Artist : nostalgia simply works.

At first sight, there is no reason why Michel Hazanavicius’s The Artist should make waves. It is not a starry-eyed romance of the Slumdog Millionaire variety. It revolves not around news-making issues such as terrorism or physical disability, but around a narcissistic actor’s unreasonable aversion to ‘talking pictures’. It is not a racy thriller or a poignant biopic. And yet, there is something poetic and beautiful about this nearly-silent black-and-white movie that manages to be emotional without being sentimental. Indeed, The Artist succeeds because it speaks simply and directly of one man muddling along through changing times, which is exactly what we are all doing.

George Valentin is a flamboyant and unapologetically narcissistic actor of silent movies who enjoys immense popularity. When Peppy Miller, a chirpy and relentlessly optimistic extra, grabs his attention, he tells her, “If you want to be an actress, you need to have something the others don’t.” Soon, however, in his recalcitrance against acting in talkies, Valentin’s heyday is over. How he deals with this along with Miller forms the rest of the story. In case you are yet to watch the movie, please bookmark this blog post, watch the movie, and come back here to see if you agree! (I am, of course, taking for granted that you will watch the movie. And, needless to say, that you will come back to read the rest of this review.)

The most endearing aspect of the movie, apart from the lovable doggie which follows Valentin everywhere, is the story itself; to this the well-etched and equally well-acted protagonist does justice. What I liked best about Valentin is that even in the midst of sorrow, he does not lose his panache. When Miller says that she watched his movie which very few others did, he asks whether she wants a refund, making us wonder whether he is being sarcastic, humorous or self-pitying.

The story works for several reasons – it is tragic enough for us to relate to, but bright enough to hold our attention till the end. It is perhaps a good example of “a tragedy with a happy ending” as the Guardian review of The Artist quotes. But there is more: the movie with its absence of colour and the early 1900s setting harks back to times when life was tough and ordinary people still endured. I strongly suspect that for a beleaguered audience looking for something fresh, and more importantly, something refreshing, nostalgia is a highly welcome emotion. Very subtly, yet very effectively, The Artist provides nostalgia in dollops. For those interested in finding out more, the Guardian review highlights several instances through which The Artist pays homage to older movies.

I also enjoyed the highly dramatic acting – Miller running to Valentin when he wakes up from his coma, the dog running to the policeman, Valentin clutching a film reel while lying by the charred ruins of several other reels, and so on. Today, in the quest for realistic portrayals (a la Hollywood) and over-the-top song-and-dance shows (think Bollywood), this theatrical element seems to have gone missing from most movies, almost as if movies have forgotten their roots in theatre. Perhaps, unlike their counterparts from other countries, French movies still retain this naturalness of story-telling. Which might explain why another French movie, A Very Long Engagement, is endearing in its own right. And then of course, when you make a movie about movies, you are in home ground. (The excellent Malayalam movie Udayanaanu Taaram is a case in point.)

In terms of technique, even an amateur reviewer of movies (such as yours truly) would be able to discern interesting aspects in the depiction. For instance, as Valentin sinks into obscurity, he is shown sinking into quicksand in a self-produced silent movie. In the more intense days of his depression, even his shadow leaves him, only to rejoin him later. Before leaving him, Valentin’s wife asks him a question that is at once reflective of his obstinacy and of her indignation: “George… Why do you refuse to talk?” Did she mean talk to her, or talk in movies?! Such instances abound in The Artist.

I found it amazing that if a story is well-depicted, you hardly miss dialogue. Or colour, for that matter. I happened to watch the silent black-and-white Charlie Chaplin-starrer The Kid very recently – while we are on it, this is a touching movie that makes you constantly wonder whether to laugh at Chaplin’s antics or cry at the pathetic situation of the child – hence the silence element of The Artist was not completely new for me. But the amazement remains.

Of course, despite my rave review, not everything is perfect in The Artist. There is ample room for criticism, be it the excessive focus on just one person or the unnecessarily overdone lack of dialogue. But for now, I am still in that delicious hangover where I am considering watching the movie again, so the criticism will have to wait. However, if you have read my scathing take on 3 Idiots you would know that I am not one for freely ladling out praise!

All in all, this is one movie not to be missed. Nostalgia is sometimes worth it.

<Personal opinion disclaimer applies.>

P.S.: If I had enjoyed (and not completed) reading Ulysses, I might have gone ahead with my cheeky tribute to James Joyce by calling this post ‘A Portrait of the Artist…’, but I still haven’t forgiven Joyce for Ulysses.

P.P.S.: Ulysses is definitely good, especially the parts that are comprehensible. So if it’s on your reading list, do not let the above statement dissuade you as much as the sheer thickness of the book might.