Yesterday after school I went and saw The Artist with my mom, starring two actors I hadn’t heard of until then, Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo. Both are obviously French by their names but that didn’t matter because this movie was a silent film, a 10-Oscar nominated silent film at that.
I had never seen a silent movie before (I know, I know, how uncultured I am!) and went into it thinking I was in for some easy entertainment-no talking, no real emotion, right? Wrong. How naïve I was, that old non-silent-movie-watching self!
This movie beat every possible emotion out of me-nostalgia for a time I didn’t even live in (from the roaring ‘20s to the depressed ‘30s), an aching sadness that I carried with me even after the movie ended, and humor at the many comic moments including a talented jack russel terrier.
Dujardin’s expressive face helps him transform from an arrogant actor who jovially plays with his dog to a helpless and angry man shamed by his own profession. Bejo plays her part as a rising star in the new “talkies” well and the fact that she looks like Christy Turlington doesn’t hurt either (lucky b****).
I still don’t understand how a movie without talking can convey such a range of feelings and situations. And I really don’t understand how I have probably never been more moved by a movie than by this one when there is barely a script at all. I’ve sobbed through Titanic, The Notebook, and Secret Life of Bees but never has one got to me like The Artist. It deserves every nomination.
I hope it’s playing in Botswana so you can go see it!
P.S. Ever since you pointed out the Prada flame shoes to me I have been seeing them EVERYWHERE. You are quite the trend spotter buddy ol’ pal!