The Artist

Writer & Director:

Michael Hazanavicius

2011, b/w

Films nostalgic about A Golden Era of film-making will always appeal to the narcissism and sentimentality of award-givers – ‘The Artist’ received 5 Oscars and 7 Baftas – but it’s easy to see why. Scorsese’s lesser ‘Hugo’ was a peer also lauded, but the affection for that feels more because of its homage to Georges Méliès, playing to the gallery, than as a standard children’s fantasy (it loses interest in its protagonist as soon as the homage takes over). 

‘The Artist’ is rooted in Guillaume’s Schiffman’s sumptuous black-and-white photography, pleasing locations and sets that effortlessly render the off-stage story in the milieu, the streets and the fancy rooms of the Silent Era. Jean Durjardin and Bérénice Bejo have the matinee idol looks and charm to convince but project with a contemporary knowingness and sensibility that allows connection for a modern audience. Oh, and there’s a cute dog. Make no mistake, this isn’t an Exposé Of A Golden Era: it’s a pure homage and in that way, it’s successful. It means you have to sympathise with the plight of a Silent Movie start losing his privilege and loyal manservant, that a girl can reach the heady heights of stardom on feminine looks and charisma alone. But neither George Valentin (Durjardin) and Peppy Miller (Bejo) are divas or brats so there’s no ill-feelings: just charm.

 

Its most satisfying surprises are in the playful use of sound: Valentin has a nightmare of sounds, for example, or the sudden appearance of ‘Pennies of Heaven’ on the soundtrack. The formal play with the medium produces other treats, such as the frames-per-minute slowing when a reel of celluloid is being looked at. And it’s both this knowingness and uncritical recreation of the era that surely makes it a favourite. It’s charming and winning and carefully made. There’s an overall sense of goodwill that, even if it is guilty by omission of any deeper concerns (such as class and equality), it’s not that film.

 

And it all culminates in a wonderful dance routine that just begs you to be giddy with the escapism of movies. It’s a pretty delightful piece of froth.

I Was Born, but...

 大人の見る絵本　生れてはみたけれど Otona no miru ehon -
Umarete wa mita keredo "An Adult's Picture Book View — I Was Born, But...”

Yasujirō Ozu, 1932, b/w, Japan

One of the great things about Ozu is that he proves the failing of much cinematic and soap opera drama in that their tendency is to always, always fall into melodrama. The quietness of Ozu’s dramas may look as if nothing much is happening, but a relatively still surface does not mean it is untroubled beneath. Hierarchy and manners and social mores barely seem to keep frustrations and anxieties and unfairness at bay, but time and again Ozu’s characters rely upon those traditions to hold things together and to bare compromise.    

Ozu’s silent masterpiece “I Was Born, But....” starts off as a kind of Japanese “Our Gang” frolic but ultimately shifts into something far more resonant and troubling. It is troubling in its outlining out of the hierarchies of society that allow for bullying, humiliation and the compromise of character. Even in the more slapstick and amusing first half, this is already being sketched out in the tale of two young brothers dealing with bullies when they move to a new town. Although not exactly the timid sort, the brothers avoid school to avoid the bullies until they employ the services of a bigger bully – the local delivery boy – and mercilessly move into the role of gang leaders. It’s all about power games. 

The coming-of-age story takes a darker turn when the brothers attend a home-movie screening in which their father – a mild and fair man – is seen goofing around, seemingly to gain favour of his boss. The boys are humiliated and furious and confront their father with accusations of being a loser and unworthy. If you would ever think a verbal confrontation to lack power when conveyed by inter-titles, “I Was Born, but...” is probably the film to prove you wrong, for so fluid and engrossing is Ozu’s set-up and flow that the seriousness of the argument and the clash of generations is indeed distressing. Father turns to sake and the boys put on a hunger-strike. There is no harmonious ending here, not even a true acknowledged truce, just recognition of human weakness that lasts a lifetime and shapes character. And life goes on.