I didn’t know what to expect. From the endless trailer play The Artist received at the Landmark on Clark, I have to admit I didn’t have much hope. It looked too “artsy,” too cute, too self-important. That’s at least how it seemed. And then the reviews started coming in, and pretty much everyone was talking about it on all the movie podcasts. Still, I was holding out. Everyone could have been deceived by the gimmick of a contemporary silent, black and white film, right?
Of course, my preconceptions were wrong (I still think the trailer mis-markets the film): The Artist is a wonderfully fun and entertaining film, and that makes up for whatever high pretensions it may have. The story is basically the same as Singin’ in the Rain: A successful silent film star struggles to adapt to sound while the woman he loves becomes a huge star.
The year is 1929, the place is Hollywoodland, and the falling star is George Valentin (Jean Dujardin), a mix of Douglas Fairbanks, Harold Lloyd, and William Powell (and Valentino, too, I guess) with the ruggedly charismatic face of Sean Connery and the natural cheeriness of Gene Kelly. And that description is not lifted from Roger Ebert’s review—I’d be surprised to see a review that didn’t mention it.
Anyway, on his way out the door from his latest premiere, Valentin bumps into one of his fans, the slightly ditzy flapper Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo). He shrugs it off and poses for a quick photo with her.
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