The fact that The Artist won
so many oscars is not an indication of it's quality. According to that
tasteless golden bell-end, Dances With Wolves was better than Goodfellas
which, like the power of psychics, 9/11 conspiracies, and the
existence of gravity is quite clearly bullshit. Anything Kevin Costner does
instantly becomes almost unbearably dull due to the vortex of boredom that is
his soul. Costner is a bit like a cross between Jeff Bridges, Tom Hanks and a
lobotomised ventriloquist's dummy.
Sean Connery spent the entire running time of The Untouchables cheekily confusing us all by playing an Irish man with a Scottish accent. However, against Costner's string operated performance as Elliot Ness, the academy lost all perspective and awarded the ageing James Bond an Oscar of his own.
Sean Connery spent the entire running time of The Untouchables cheekily confusing us all by playing an Irish man with a Scottish accent. However, against Costner's string operated performance as Elliot Ness, the academy lost all perspective and awarded the ageing James Bond an Oscar of his own.
Regardless of it's awards
however, The Artist was receiving glowing reviews and so peaked my
interest. It's interesting in that by being a silent film The Artist will
be one of the most original films out this year. As 3D sails closer to the
iceberg of public apathy where it will die a slow and inevitable death, it
seems that one of the most attention grabbing things that cinema can do is
borrow techniques from about 80 years ago. It's kind of like getting sex tips
off your granny. Just because we live in a shallow, loveless time of fisting
and death by deep-throat, doesn't mean we shouldn't enjoy the simplicity of
lights-off missionary followed by shame and pregnancy.
As soon as I walked into the
screening of The Artist, it was obvious that it was a silent film. There
was about 40 other people already seated with the average age ranging from
between 90 and dead. Despite the nostalgic waft of piss and the retirement home
feel of the room, I was originally relieved by the coffin dodgers around me. I
hate the public in general but at least these ancient doderers wouldn't ruin
the film for me by loudly phoning their drug dealer or wanking each other off
through the pop corn box.
Unfortunately though, this was
a silent film and old people aren't healthy. There was so much coughing
and spluttering throughout the movie that I'm genuinely going to get myself
checked out for tuberculosis. Like going to a foreign country, I would advise
anybody thinking of seeing this film to go for their jabs before hand. It's
only been a couple of days since I saw it but I know already I'm one of the few
survivors of that screening. There was one guy a few seat down from me who
seemed to be trying his absolute hardest to cough out a lung. I would have made
sure he was okay but fuck it, I'm British- helping strangers just isn't our
'style'.
The plot of the film is fairly
simple, although with no dialogue for exposition it was never going to be The
Usual Suspects. The Artist begins with a silent actor named George
Valentin at the top of his game and enjoying his fame. After a chance encounter
with a wannabe actress, George uses his power and influence to kick start her
career with an odd lack of exploitation and not a single dick sucked in
sight.
Unfortunately for George
though, the talkies are on their way and John Goodman's 1920's Harvey Weinstein
wants a new group of meat puppets to whore out on screen. With George being
closer to 40 than birth he swiftly finds himself out on his arse and battling
depression.
For someone who is not that
experienced with this style of film, this was a massively enjoyable experience.
So far the only examples of silent film that I've seen are The Cabinet of Dr
Caligari, Metropolis and porn when there are other people in the house.
Regardless though, this is not a style that takes long to get used to. Just
watch the flashing images and read the occasional card of dialogue that pops up
on screen. In a way it's not too dissimilar to reading a comic book. It was odd
too how that when deprived of a sense, the imagination really takes hold. A bit
like a Flintstones obsessed schizophrenic when John Goodman speaks you
read his lips and you hear his voice just as loud in your head.
It's a credit to both the
actors and director that without any words to guide us, the film is just as
emotional as any other. It's visual comedy is funny and it's moments of
depravity are just as frustrating or heartbreaking. Perhaps the film has been
slightly over-hyped but for being bravely un-ironic, genuinely creative and
confidently relatable it deserves its galaxy of five star reviews. With it's
self-reflective, post-modern storyline it's basically the silent film version
of Scream that the 20's never got.
Although the cast are all
great, many people were recently lobbying for George's dog to be awarded an
Oscar nomination. Not only was this Korean appetiser deserving of the
praise, so too was the music with both being just as much a character as John
Goodman's shrunken cleavage. Near the end of the film, the music sneakily
sneaks into the love theme from Vertigo. For me though it wasn't
Hitchcock that this film was most reminiscent of, but rather the Coen Brothers.
The Artist has the 'screwball' feel of The
Hudsucker Proxy and the hippy hating colour scheme of The Man Who Wasn't
There. It had the old school Hollywood feel of Barton Fink and, like
the opening to A Serious Man, was presented in a ratio that under no
scientific circumstances could result in square eyes. Even the cast had a
distinctly Coen feel with the obvious example being their lovable sun-blocker
John Goodman. Jean Dujardin too had that charming
presence of someone like George Clooney. Like the Burn After Reading star, his
smug levels were luckily always one raised eyebrow below the slime levels oozed
off by the likes of the talentlessy hard-titted Alex Pettyfer.
Despite the
success of The Artist I don't think we need to prepare ourselves for a
shipment of silent films any time soon. The style was used here because it
conveniently suited the story as opposed to 3D which is being forced onto us by
piracy-injured studio executives. Avatar was a decent film despite the
hype of being poked in the eye. This too is a great film that rises above the
novelty of it's format to deliver a story, and characters that are worth
braving the grim-reaper feel of a cinema full of the grey-haired living dead.
If I have any criticism of the film, it would simply be the vocal twist at the
end. If I'd known that the main character was French all along, there's no way
I'd have sympathised with the garlic-reeking surrender-cunt. Patriotic
xenophobia aside though, it's a good film and worth checking out. Although if
it had any sense of humour, it would have ended with James Cromwell looking
into the camera and uttering, “That'll do, pig”. Not having him do that line is
bit like George Lucas hiring Samuel L. Jackson and not having him say
'motherfucker'.
Missed opportunities...
Missed opportunities...
Follow this blog or I'll fucking cut you.
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