My wife and I watched The Artist last night. I’m no film critic, but feel compelled to share some thoughts about a movie that genuinely filled me with joy. That sounds a bit vague and fuzzy. Indeed it is. It took me some fifteen minutes to unmuddle my thoughts and work out quite why it had such an impact on me. The unfuzzy version is this:
The Artist manages to do something quite unique. It delivers nostalgic charm through cleverly contemporary story-telling. Old silent movies have charm, but fail to connect with me; they lack sophistication; they are detached from the psyche of a contemporary audience. A modern film can deeply affect me, but through its sophistication lacks the naivety required to make me take my guard down.
In short, it does what should be impossible. Many people ache for the past and are catered for with often superficial veneers of nostalgia. This movie refuses to be so cheap. It is in many ways as contemporary as a movie can be. It is both charming and knowing, simple and clever. It is a fine example of how the craft of storytelling itself can alter how the viewer allows himself to perceive it. Wonderful.
