Offbeat films are often offbeat simply to attract attention (and, at this time of the year, awards), and The Artist is certainly offbeat.  Not only is it (mostly) silent, but it’s filmed in black and white.  Those facts are bound to limit its audience.  At the laserdisc store where I worked and later managed, I knew of customers who would not watch anything in black and white.  A few wouldn’t watch anything that wasn’t in color.  And others wouldn’t watch (or, rather, listen) to anything not processed in Dolby Surround Sound, or something comparable. Their idea of entertainment was something colorful, loud and B-I-G.  This film is not for them.  But I digress.

Michel Hazanavicius’ film is an ode to movies.  It is a (mostly) silent film that takes its story, themes and even specific scenes from various classics such as A Star is Born (the first one), Singin’ in the Rain, The Mark of Zorro and others.  It functions as a homage to the early days of Hollywood, glorying in the public fascination with actors “mugging” for the camera.  But like all show business chronicles, the tough side of the business is present as well.  The big swashbuckling star (Jean Dujardin) refuses to adapt to new “talking pictures” and short-circuits his own career. Meanwhile, the perky extra with big ambition (Bérénice Bejo) gradually finds fame, becoming the biggest star in town.  As she rises and he descends (the primary Star is Born theme) he becomes despondent and eventually suicidal.  Yes, Hollywood is a tough town.

The Artist is a gorgeous film, both to watch and to hear.  Its images are sharp, clear and very nicely composed within the boxlike frame — another nod to the early days, long before everything became widescreen.  Its music score is excellent, consisting mostly of original music that, as in days of yore, accompanied images with reflective mood music.  It’s a terrific approach that works right up until the big climax, when suddenly the film score begins to play Bernard Herrmann’s love theme from Vertigo, which I recognized instantly.  Having that music play, with all the drama and images that it already invites from Hitchcock’s masterpiece, completely changes the tone of the film we are watching — unless, of course, the viewer is unaware of its source. But who doesn’t know the music from Vertigo?  I really wish Hazanavicius hadn’t used Herrmann’s music; I found it utterly distracting.

The film itself, despite its beauty, its cleverness, its nostalgic glimpse at Hollywood’s dream factory and its superstar dog (a Jack Russell Terrier named Uggie) is not terribly original.  Its story, as noted, borrows from very familiar sources, and truly does not add much which is fresh or meaningful.  Its love story is subdued, being one of unrequited hopefulness to start with, and it never really blossoms.  The final scene, in fact, is probably the most distracting of all, as the silence finally ends, for no real reason other than to be different, to change things up yet one more time before the final credits.

I give the filmmakers gigantic credit for having the guts — and the wherewithal — to find and employ an approach to modern moviemaking that not only cries out for attention, but grabs it and runs with its concept.  The Artist is an audacious movie with wonderful performances (I liked Bejo even more than Dejardin, who has become an international sensation). For many viewers it is an instant classic.  I feel it could have been a classic, but missed its opportunities.  I wish that the story had not relied so much on old show business bromides, that its borrowing of other movies’ elements had been more subtle, and that it was less prosaic and mundane.  For all of its glitz and glamour, this movie truly is silent, not because it cannot be heard, but because it isn’t saying anything of importance.  ✰ ✰ ✰.  5 Jan. 2012.