Best Picture: # 84
Original Release Date: November 23, 2011
Rating: PG-13
Runtime: 1 hours, 40 minutes
Director: Michel Hazanavicius
Writer: Michel Hazanavicius
Quick Impressions:
I’ve already written a review of The Artist! You can read my original review here: https://sarahscinematreats.com/artist/
I’ve been blogging about movies so long, the films I reviewed back when I started this blog are now “classics” (according to my own labeling system). Technically, back then my blog was called Nancy’s Night at the Movies. When I was about three, Nancy (the pickpocket from Oliver!) was my alter-ego. I thought my cockney accent was flawless, but since I was a three-year-old from Omaha with a chronically stuffy nose who pronounced hard Cs as Ts, I’m guessing the illusion was imperfect.
I’ve always followed the Oscars. When my daughter was two, my parents moved in with us, and my husband negotiated a date night every week, so finally, I started blogging movie reviews. For some reason, I was reluctant to use my real name. Asserting my own opinions in a direct manner in a public forum feels innately unsafe to me. My childhood journal is mostly anecdotes about my little sister. My Facebook profile is like that, too. I just write down what everybody else is saying. Slice of life.
My husband’s friend (who suggested the name for the blog) also suggested I make video movie reviews using sock puppets speaking in a cockney accent. That way I could perform as Nancy while keeping some protective distance. I kept considering it. The idea made sense. I spent half my kids’ childhood performing Dinah, the stuffed cat, a provocateur who teaches every subject while simultaneously behaving like the ultimate chaos Muppet.
After I was on Jeopardy!, I got a shot of confidence and thought, You know what? I’ll blog under my own name! And then after the Tournament of Champions, I spontaneously decided, Yeah, and I’ll be on Twitter, too. And I’ll be on Reddit, too. As me.
Yeah, I’m not good at that. I feel too exposed. I’m introspective by nature, so it’s not that I don’t know what I think. But asserting my thoughts directly is so hard for me. I prefer communicating through fiction or in whispered asides. I don’t know how I’ll ever be successful as a writer because, apparently, to sell your writing, you have to (constantly, incessantly) sell yourself. I’d rather sell the writing. Sometimes there’s not enough of me to fill up a whole person. Inside the Sarah suit, I’m just balled up down in one foot, crying.
I promise this is relevant to The Artist. I’ll get to the point. On this viewing, I watched the movie through different eyes, older eyes. Recently I fretted, “I’ll probably never be successful. To be successful as a writer—in fact, even to be successful as a human being—you must constantly sell yourself.” (When are you supposed to write, then?) I’m not sure I like pretending to be a person. Overall, I prefer pretending to be a stuffed cat. Also, just now as I’ve finally matured as a writer and have lived long enough to draw from useful experiences, writers are no longer relevant or needed! Too bad that’s the only skill I have! (I’m expressing feelings here, not facts. See how I’m just like George Valentin? I also love setting stuff on fire!)
I’ve been working on a piece of non-fiction that frustrates me so much. Finally, I realized, “Well, here’s the problem. I don’t belong in this story.” (So then why am I writing it?) Then I started concurrently writing a novel (which makes sense because I process reality through fiction). All the stuff that didn’t belong in the non-fiction book, the really personal stuff, I siphoned into the novel. But then I revised the novel (which was far too crowded) and realized the thing that didn’t belong in it, once again, was me. So…I don’t know what to do with myself! Maybe they’ll let me join a monastery and make honey. (I doubt that very much, but have you ever been to Hosios Loukas in Greece? It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Our guide told me, “The honey here is very fresh.” I was skeptical and lifted one jar of honey from a stack. A bee flew out!) (But they expect you to be quiet there.) (Or buzz.)
On this watch of The Artist, I’m really feeling the section of the movie when George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) mopes around feeling sorry for himself because there’s a kind of vague despair that doesn’t truly resonate with you until you reach middle age and experience similar feelings. I understood this scene intellectually when I was younger. I also appreciated it emotionally. But I don’t think I really felt it the way I do now.
Since my mother died, I feel so irrelevant. My head used to be crowded with memories of my childhood, things filed under “important” because my recollection of them made her so happy. It was a past we shared. Now none of it matters. It’s still taking up an awful lot of mental real estate, but it’s a ghost town. Making a point of remembering those things used to be a social activity, a way to show my mother I loved her and cared about our family and her memories. Now it just seems narcissistic. I’m the only one in there. I feel like the rug got pulled out from under me, and the world changed so fast.
(Note: This is all maudlin and over the top, of course, but that’s the mental state George Valentin is in throughout most of this film.)
As Valentin realized how irrelevant he was, I said, “See this is what’s going to happen to me!”
“They’re going to quit making books?” my daughter shot back sarcastically.
Um. Yeah. Like next week! Nobody respects writers anymore. (To be fair, though, it’s not like anyone ever did.)
Now, of course, these are super mopey thoughts, and there’s no point in dwelling on them. (And it’s not like AI is actually replacing humans. I know several writers who generate hilarious comedy by screwing with AI.) My daughter is right. When George’s wife (Penelope Ann Miller) is asking for a divorce, my daughter read, “We have to talk.” Then she joked, as George, “Sorry, I don’t do that.” She read the next captions, “I’m unappy,” “So are millions of us.”
“But she’s unhappy in your marriage,” I pointed out.
“But he’s pouting,” my daughter protested. “He’s doing his Emo Kylo Ren thing.”
Yes, George is pouting. There is nothing healthy or productive about any of his behavior throughout most of this movie. But in fairness, his life is destroyed. It’s easy to recognize his behavior as dysfunctional, but this is not a joke to him. He’s miserable. He can’t just go on as things have been. And what’s changed is not anything he’s brought about through his own efforts. In fact, if anything, his work seems to have matured. Now he’s behind the camera, producing and directing his own movie. He’s expressing something on the screen that’s deeply meaningful to him. But (through no fault of his own) nobody cares. Everyone laughs at him. He spends his own money and puts his best work on display, a deeply personal, meaningful film that describes his own psychological state, and everyone laughs.
The Artist adeptly conveys the crushing feeling (that often accompanies depression) that everyone is laughing at your pain. If Valentin burns his house down, if he shoots himself, no matter what he does, all those faceless mouths will laugh at him. No eyes. Just laughing mouths.
The only person who appreciates his film is rising star Peppy Miller. But, of course, she appreciates his film! 1) She always did like his work 2) Her own flippant speech and actions caused him personal pain. (She knows they did because he confronted her!) So when she sees his hand reaching out desperately from that quicksand, she reacts appropriately and feels all the bad feelings because when he was falling in there, she kicked him in the head and pushed herself up (metaphorically).
Peppy appears to be the only one who gets Valentin’s film. Surely, it’s not just that he’s done her a favor. And it’s not just that she’s a fan. It’s that on some level, she has sense enough to know that she’s witnessing a preview of the end of her own career. One day, she’s going to drown in that quicksand, too! Right now, she’s a huge star. When she first met him, so was George!
It’s like one of my favorite poems, “Spring and Fall: to a young child” by Gerard Manley Hopkins. “Márgarét, áre you grieving / Over Goldengrove unleaving…” [then the entire poem] “It ís the blight man was born for, / It is Margaret you mourn for.”
One day, technology and tastes will change again (or Peppy will simply age as women do), and suddenly, she’ll see her star fade, too. And everyone (who is not ignoring her) will laugh.
Now that I’m in my mid-40s, I can connect with George’s character in a way I really didn’t the first time I watched the film back in 2012. (I can’t believe The Artist came out that long ago! I originally saw it the day after my daughter turned three! Now she’s about to turn fifteen! Seriously, truly, I feel like this movie premiered much more recently.)
I intended to write up new thoughts without looking back at what I wrote in January of 2012. Then late last night, I was like, “Forget impulse control! I’m going to read my whole review! Bwaahahahaha!”
Even as I was watching the movie, I remembered to myself, “Oh I think that’s a moment I called out in my review. Oh, I wrote about that!” My favorite scenes are still all the same. (I knew that even before I looked), but, still, my relationship to the film has changed a bit in almost twelve years, so I’m trying to highlight what’s different here.
The Good:
Watching this with my daughter was so fun. I love watching stuff with her. As it opens (to a torture scene in a movie in which Valentin is silently screaming), she read, “1927,” and joked, “This is the audience after watching Wings.”
“Is this whole movie silent?” she asked when the first film-within-a-film ended.
“Yep,” I told her. “See the thunderous applause?”
She complained, “This is a hard movie to watch while eating soup.” A few minutes later, she was complaining that the score was repetitive.
“Yes, the main theme gets stuck in your head,” I told her. “I remember it from watching it win all those Oscars.” Besides Best Picture, The Artist also won for Actor, Director, Costume Design, and Score.
Then (what payoff!) when Valentin has his nightmare, my daughter went wild. She got so into it. My husband and I were delighted by the strength of her reaction.
“WHAT?!” she exclaimed in delight.
Then she went on, “The world is evolving without him! He’s powerless to change within his society! This is great!!!!!”
She noticed immediately that the score changes after the nightmare.
“When he’s making his old movies,” she gushed eagerly, “the same score plays in the background all the time, but once he sees the new movie, all the other sounds start breaking into his head.”
She loved it. Watching her discover what makes the movie so good was genuinely delightful. (I almost said “watching her discover The Artist’s gimmick,” but I don’t mean to cheapen what the movie is doing. The message is quite profound. I just mean it all turns on one trick.)
I remember back in 2012, people were asking, “Is a silent, black-and-white film really the Best Picture of 2011?”
Personally, I thought it was great. But somehow that’s always my take. I know no matter what the subject, the correct way to write about it is feigned outrage. (I’m fine with genuine outrage. There are some subjects that should provoke outrage.) I get a bit weary of that type of discourse, though. Every time something is popular, we get a million articles saying, “And here’s why this is actually terrible.” I guess that’s what people like reading (or like commenting on in outrage).
The Artist is not just a clever movie. It makes a profound and useful point. Things always change. And the loss of the old way almost always feels like something to mourn. But it doesn’t have to be. Silent movies are over. But that doesn’t mean George Valentin has to be over. He can adapt. He can evolve. The world he was comfortable in has changed, but he can choose to change with it.
This is always a bitterly hard lesson for me. My mother always said, “An organism that cannot adapt cannot survive.” She was well aware that she had trouble adapting. And so do I. (I remember raving as a young child, “That is not the real Ronald McDonald! They changed him, and they’re just pretending like they didn’t!”)
The thing is, the experience of adapting and changing doesn’t feel as ho-hum as that pat axiom. Just like we see in The Artist, when the whole world changes, you feel like you are drowning in quicksand.
Hollywood seems to have an unending obsession with movies that focus on (or touch on) the transition from silent movies to talkies. Singin’ in the Rain and Babylon spring to mind immediately, but there are numerous others. This particular historical moment comes up a lot in film, probably because everybody innately gets it. That dramatic transition provides a convenient metaphor most people relate to immediately. I mean, sometimes, when things change, they really change. Usually you don’t suspect changes like this are coming until they’ve already happened. I’m sure this message resonates even more an in industry that always seems to be in flux. (Entertainment seems to involve more paradigm shifts than most industries.) (At least, that’s true according to a stranger raving at a restaurant in Culver City last year. After he left, the waitress caught the eye of another patron and noted that the irate man’s date had not spoken once.)
By nature, I don’t like change at all. I’m clingy and intransigent. My husband is always for progress. He’s always eager to embrace innovation. Meanwhile, I’m like, “Weren’t we a little hasty about the American Revolution? I’m not done thinking that over yet. Maybe we should pay the taxes. I don’t know. Tea might be healthier than I realized. I just read this article about antioxidants that was published nine years ago…” But I know he’s right.
I so relate to George Valentin. When so much changes so fast, it’s hard not to give in to inertia. He doesn’t just give up at the first hint of adversity. No, he puts everything he has into making his own silent movie—and he fails. Is his movie bad? No. But he still fails. (Too bad he didn’t pour those resources into making a talking picture!) After that, he doesn’t have the heart to do anything. When too much changes at the same time, it’s overwhelming. I know I sunk into overwhelm freeze (and then further into depression) a couple of years ago when I had to make (what I felt were) too many enormous changes all at the same time.
Best Scene Visually:
Obviously, given what I keep saying, this time around, the dark image of Valentine’s hand reaching up through the quicksand really spoke to me.
I also like the torturous moment when Valentin fires his driver Clifton (James Cromwell). Clifton is working without pay and doesn’t want to leave. My husband interpreted this and other moments as a flash of pride. But isn’t it better for Clifton to be paid and able to support himself? Now see, this is why writing things down is good. In my head, I think, “If I were suicidal, I wouldn’t want other people around to be hurt, either.” But that seems a little sketchy in writing. It’s a real conundrum. Sometimes I stop being able to communicate. It’s very distressing. If you’re in a place where you know you’re a danger to yourself and others, isn’t it courteous to remove yourself from the others (like ripping off a Band-aid)? I wouldn’t want anyone to suffer unduly because of me. (But—seeing this in writing—I wouldn’t want someone I cared about to think that way.)
I remember trying to express to a friend that though I know this isn’t the proper way to feel, if I were suicidal, I wouldn’t talk about it. Actions show things, not words. She reacted in horror. (“If you feel suicidal, please tell us, so we can help you!”) Then I thought, “Well, this is coming across as if I am talking about it.” But that wasn’t what I’d intended.) My point is, when you’re deeply depressed, you’re in an altered state of mind. Often, every time you try so hard to make the most responsible choice, that turns out to be, in fact, the worst thing you can do. That’s why I’m not sure I’d call what’s going on here an example of pride. Deep depression muddles your thinking. (Trust me, if you’re depressed, the impersonal internet is always happy to say, “People like xyz are toxic.” The internet’s solution is always to cut out those people. But what if you are those people? Take steps not to be. But what if you have taken steps, and you still are? I’m not surprised to see a despairing George Valentin push people away. He’s probably not in a great state of mind. Why should Clifton be miserable, too, when he can get a job and enjoy former hobbies like eating?
Best Action Sequence:
I also couldn’t help but pay attention to Valentin setting his house on fire this time because my husband kept commenting in consternation about how he was making a bad choice (probably just in case I get any ideas some night about burning the house down) (just kidding). I was trying to focus on the quiet personal tragedy of George Valentin arc because otherwise, I’d just end up commenting on all the scenes I’ve already mentioned before in my 2012 review.
Best Scene:
Well, I still love the way the movie ends with a “Bang!” That’s my favorite scene because it ties up film’s high concept elements and basic plot elements in such a satisfying way all at once. I also love the suspense of this scene. It’s like the most suspenseful Best Picture ending until Argo wins next year. (We just re-watched that, too. I forgot the almost ridiculous, delightfully manipulative suspense of that ending.)
I’m also still such a fan of Bérénice Bejo flirting with the coat rack.
The Negatives:
I had a few negative things to say about The Artist back when I wrote up the Oscar nominees in 2012. https://sarahscinematreats.com/review-of-oscar-nominees-best-picture-2/
I disagree with my previous assessment that The Artist is “like a fortune cookie.” I no longer think it’s “not particularly profound.” On my initial watch, I found the concept compelling, loved the paradox of making a silent movie about the need for progress, enjoyed the homage to silent film and Old Hollywood. But on this watch, I’m forty-four! I feel George Valentin’s suffering a bit more.
I did notice that many things my husband attributed to pride, I viewed differently. He thought Valentin is being proud when he drives away his chauffer (and friend) and also when he runs from Peppy’s house after discovering her George Valentin treasure room.
My take was really different. Wouldn’t it be somewhat creepy to wake up in someone’s house and then discover (on your own) that she owns all your old stuff, and she’s decorated a room with it? Plus, she also now employs your old chauffer, and she’s gotten you a job—working with her! I think I might run from that house, too. Peppy’s behavior seems a bit creepy there to me.
Well…if I’m being really honest, I would probably be like, “She does love me!” (because obviously she matters to him. He saves that film of the two of them dancing together). But I’m crazy. Running from that situation (at least until you’ve had some time to process) makes a bit of sense to me.
I see different emotions at play than pride. Yes, it is pride when he scoffs at the head of the studio as he’s being fired (although obviously that sense of pride covers terrible injury). But at the end, I think what’s going on is a lot more complicated. My husband said, “He thinks she pities him.”
Maybe she does pity him! Who knows? At least he get breakfast. (What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t know. Watch the movie and figure it out for yourself. I’ve rewritten those three sentences fifteen times!)
When I’m depressed (or, really, just all the time) I frequently believe people are only kind to me because they pity me, and my husband and I argue about that. He always says, “That doesn’t make any sense.” Maybe if I were a Frenchman in a tuxedo, he would read my state of mind in those instances as pride. That’s interesting to ponder.
Overall:
I just realized that my blog might not have a search function for people who aren’t logged in as me, which I consider deeply problematic. I’ll have to fix that. But I have been keeping a movie review blog since the summer of 2011. I wrote up Best Actor (https://sarahscinematreats.com/review-of-oscar-nominees-best-actor-2/) and Best Supporting Actress (https://sarahscinematreats.com/review-of-oscar-nominees-best_17/), too. Coincidentally, the summer of 2011 is also when I started writing my YA series Limitless Night (available on Amazon Kindle). I finished the sixth and final book of that series earlier this fall, though only the first four books are available to purchase now.
It feels weird to review movies I’ve already written about again, so I don’t know if I’ll keep this up or not. Meanwhile, I’m extremely excited to see Napoleon and Saltburn over Thanksgiving break. I get to watch Napoleon with my sister and my daughter, and Saltburn is written and directed by Emerald Fennell. I loved Promising Young Woman. (I’m virtually guaranteed, though, to worry Saltburn is too much like my novel since that I always think that about everything!)