Michel Hazanavicius
The Artist

It's the typical film for which, even before entering the cinema, the evaluation criteria narrow down until they take the shape of the tip of a pyramid, leaving very little room for maneuver. I stopped after the closing credits at the bar, just to hear the first impressions, and it was a show of sighs, appreciative moans, and great display of absolute superlatives and smiles. An outpouring of phrases like "the magic of cinema," "pure poetry," and, particularly from the fairer sex, expressions of utter enjoyment—as if Rocco Siffredi himself had passed through the cinema.

I remain convinced that a poet should write on paper and that magicians are more effective live, but I'd be lying if I told you that "The Artist" didn't surprise me. I wanted to take a good amount of time before spewing these lines, and as I press the keys, I feel frustration mounting; I realize then that the positive publicity for this film, even before its release, had progressively made me hate it. All these rounded and obese ratings in one direction I must have taken as an attack on my ability to judge and an imposition to obligatorily consider it genius, exceptional, fantastic, magical, and wonderful for a silent film in 2011. Almost as if the mere idea, regardless of its execution, deserved unanimous approval.

Moments of hilarity, alternating with pure drama, mix for a screenplay that is anything but enlightened, yet balanced in its rhythmic progress. An outlined love tries to unfold between the success of a rising star and the depressing fall of a celebrity of the recent past. "The Artist," underlines how in the rush of the continuous quest for innovation, there is often a tendency to shelve and reject what was appreciated up until yesterday, as if it were a turd on the living room carpet. The film focuses on the world of cinema, the transition from silent to sound, but it is evident that the message is also valid for broader, more everyday aspects.

Initially, in the theater, it was as if we all held something fragile; when it would have been appropriate to respond to a mute gesture with laughter, silence reigned. Only with the first intertitles does the viewer fully realize they are watching a silent film and will not hear the voices of the protagonists. As obvious and anticipated as it was, I found the silence impressive in moments when the soundtrack left all space to the black and white. By the law of contrast, the music, not just a pleasing backdrop but a column of crucial importance in the structure of the work. And for the same reason, the absence of words enhances the weight of gestures: in this perspective, I believe that the two protagonists (Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo) and the quadruped have done a remarkable job and that there are at least two scenes with arm and leg movements of notable visual impact.

As much as it still stupidly annoys me, for the reasons elaborated in the opening, I must admit it was great cinema. I hope I've managed to convey this conflicted sensation without having annoyed magicians, poets, or invoked too many absolute superlatives.