The Artist

A charming trifle, yes -- but Best Picture? Best Director? Best Actor? – I don’t know.  The Artist (2011, MC-89, FC#27, NFX) is by no means a charade I wish to unmask, even though those Oscars are more a testament to Harvey Weinstein’s muscle than to any inherent quality of the film.  I liked the movie, relished its respect for film history, its wit and concision, but was not moved by it.  I appreciated the hommage to silent films; found the players appealing – male, female, and canine; and admired the technical polish of the production.  But I took away from it no more than a smile on my face.  So all credit to director Michel Hazanavicius, and to the leads, Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo, but I’ll look elsewhere for my best of the year awards.  Interesting, the divide in the year’s films, between this and Hugo, with their celebrations of the primal escapist pleasures of cinema, and all those others that deal in contemporary paranoia and anticipated apocalypse.  Those are the moods of the moment in American film, and this film, while nominally French, is Hollywood through and through.  No wonder it was celebrated on Hollywood’s traditional night of self-congratulation.  Still and all, the film is an enjoyable experience, and a fond memory of the films it endeavors to recapture.