Big Screen Peter: The Artist

Once upon a time, movies were almost entirely focused on physical expression.  Narrative mattered, but for actors the industry was geared around facial contours and body movement. It certainly wasn't diction or accent. That integral part of human interaction was lost. Cinema was built around communicating through charisma, beauty and physicality.

And now?

Well, charisma might be hit or miss, but the beauty and physicality are still rampant.

In a sense, not much has changed since those early days. It was more about a shift in how things were intimated. Body language took a back seat to verbal innuendo.

And yet, the evolution from silent films to “talkies” was profound. Like dial up to broadband, the medium might have remained, but the paradigm shifted. “The Artist” mines the effects of such a change.

Directed by Michael Hazanavicius, the movie is an exploration of the human condition beset by existential change. How does one retain their identity when faced with life-altering circumstance? Are we defined by something within or by something without?  Is it who we are or what we do that makes us?

Answers are hard to come by, in life and in the movie. Not for lack of effort, of course. “The Artist” is perky and inventive. And even though these descriptives might be better suited for a particularly gifted toddler instead of an Oscar nominated film, they aren't meant as a slight. There is a true effervescence to the movie, a decidedly retroactive breath of fresh air. Not a return to roots, per se. Rather a drawing back of a historical curtain to illuminate and entertain, while simultaneously enacting a compelling story of love, vanity, and loss.

While there are many things right with “The Artist,” the narrative deflates its beautiful bubble. Certainly a tale of a film star losing everything is compelling material, but the events of the tale are nothing short of predictable. For a film that is so vibrant and fresh in so many ways, it is disappointing to understand the motives and direction from the outset. In fact, it's downright boring.

Which leads to questioning how such a flat tale could garner an Oscar nomination for the Best Picture?

Here, it seems, the committee has rewarded a film more for its conception than its execution. There's nothing wrong with that. Many might argue that the merit behind “The Tree of Life” had as much to do with the conception of the film than the actual execution, as it was long, drawn out, and, at times, a conspicuously boring experience.

Yet, even with its undercurrent of predictability, “The Artist” is a singular achievement. That a silent film could capture the imagination of mainstream America is nothing short of miraculous. In our age of constant inundation, a film that is decidedly atypical is vying for the biggest prize in cinema.

A win would be shocking, but inclusion is, in and of itself, a virtually unparalleled reward.

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