I Won't Be Silent About This

Let me tell you something right upfront.

I love silent movies.  I rent them.  I own them.  I tape them regularly on Turner Classic Movies, which is the only network outlet that dares to run them.  I can tick off several of my absolute favorites.

Seven Chances with Buster Keaton.

The General with Buster Keaton.

Safety Last with Harold Lloyd

City Lights with Charlie Chaplin.

Birth of a Nation by director D.W. Griffith.

The Crowd by director King Vidor.

Modern Times by Charlie Chaplin.

Speedy with Harold Lloyd.

I could go on and on.

So, naturally, the news that there is a new and Oscar-worthy silent movie currently playing on 2012 screens would be welcomed by yours truly.  Okay, I'm a little skeptical that the big award buzz might be the handiwork of producer Harvey Weinstein, who once crammed the dreadful "Shakespeare in Love" down the throats of Academy Award voters.  But, still, a silent movie that is new and apparently exceptional?  When can I pay for my ticket?

After seeing "The Artist," when can I get my money back?

You want to talk overhype?  This is the poster child for excessive movie promotion.  And perhaps one of the most hackneyed gimmicks ever attempted on film.  If you are going to do a silent movie for the 2012 filmgoer, you need to make sure there is something to watch after the first minute.  Sure, when you listen to Tiny Tim sing "Tiptoe Thru the Tulips," your attention is riveted for the first stanza.  But who listens to the whole song?  The same goes for "The Artist."  It's a movie that's like that house for sale.  The one with great curb appeal, but, when you go inside, you discover that the builders forgot to include a kitchen or a bathroom.

Yep, "The Artist" is badly in need of a toilet.  So we can flush it all down.  This movie is a piece of crap.

I shouldn't be that surprised given that some Parisian hacks are the brains behind this "merde."  Leave it to the scummy French film industry to put together this rip-off of about five other movies.  After all, movies from this spineless country are overrated to begin with.  Remove Catherine Deneuve and Louis Malle and what have these "imbeciles" produced of any worth?  Let's face it.  They adore the work of Jerry Lewis.  Votre membres de jure, je rest my case.  The whole production is a mystery.  Not a whodunit, more like a "whybotherwiththat."

There is not an original or organic moment in "The Artist."  The filmmakers have concocted a souffle that refuses to rise.  It contains a little bit of "A Star is Born," a little bit of "Sunset Boulevard," a little bit of "Lassie Come Home" and a whole lot of nothing. 

Meanwhile, the so-called "original music" by composer Ludovic Bource is shamelessly lifted in whole chunks from memorable other movies.  The last ten minutes is nothing but a cover orchestration of the haunting love theme from "Vertigo" by Bernard Herrmann.  They do acknowledge the original work, but you have to stay till the very end of the credits to see that.  Besides me, who does that?  Well, "Vertigo" co-star Kim Novak did and she is pissed.  Rightfully so.  But there are so many problems with "The Artist" beyond this cinematic pilfering.

The plot of "The Artist" is as threadbare as the front tires on your 1927 Model T Ford.   George Valentin is a "Douglas Fairbanks" silent screen star who falls apart when sound enters the picture.  Yet, before he hits the inevitable skids of booze, poverty, and an inability to get a secure table reservation at Musso and Frank's, George discovers the perky Peppy Miller, a young ingenue.  He puts a birth mark on her cheek with a Sharpie and, voila, she is a star.  He spends the rest of the picture running up a liquor tab at Gil Turner's, watching his old movies like Gloria Swanson, and hanging around the house with his pet dog who might be the son of Eddie on TV's "Frasier."  The knuckleheads behind the camera couldn't even be original about that.  Is the only dog breed that can be used on film a Jack Russell Terrier?  What?  A Beagle's not good enough for you?

That's the movie, gang.  And, if you can correctly identify the ten or twenty movies that this reminds you of, there's a chocolate croissant with your name on it.  There are several so-called plot surprises that I saw coming ten minutes ahead of time.  Of course, I knew that Peppy was the secret benefactor when Valentin had to auction off his belongings.  I knew what was on the reel of film that he clutched during a fire.  The only unexpected surprise was that anybody in the theater actually stayed to the conclusion of the movie.

Much has been made of the acting by the two leads, who both should be given a one-way ticket out of this country via Air France.  Jean Dujardin is George Valentin and his dramatic choices exclusively require the use of raised eyebrows.  His level of emotion is geometrically proportional to how high they go.  His eyebrows are used so much that he ultimately will come down with arthritis of the forehead. 

As bad as Dujardin is, Berenice Bejo is even worse.  She is as horrible as the conditions during your last incarceration at the Bastille.  Every once in a while, she flails her nostrils like a race horse and I want to remind her that they already made a movie about Secretariat.  Try to watch her on screen and not get nauseated by her teeth, which make Freddie Krueger's biteplate look like he's been treated with Invisalign.  These two stooges ham it up so much that you become convinced they were schooled at the Hormel School of Acting. 

The rest of the supporting cast is American-based and should be in litigation with their agents shortly.  Penelope Ann Miller, Ed Lauter, and James Cromwell are completely wasted in small roles and are simply waiting for their paychecks to hit direct deposit.  John Goodman lumbers around as the studio head and seems to be reliving his angers from days on the sitcom set with Roseanne Barr.  Indeed, the dog winds up being the best actor in the film.  Except, can somebody tell me what the pooch's name was?  How do you have a canine character that is prominent and not let the audience know what his name is?? 

That's just how sloppy "The Artist" is.  For the record, it was produced by Harvey Weinstein, written and directed by Michel Hazanavicius, and released by mistake.  You'll probably read soon about Oscar nominations up our French wazoos and none of them will be justified.  I've heard tales that audiences are applauding wildly at the end of "The Artist."  Well, the sold-out crowd I was with barely clapped at all.  Everyone filed out in a fitting silence usually reserved for the state funeral of General Charles de Gaulle.  But, still, it will be revered and hoisted up on a Louvre-like pedestal. 

Mon dieu!

You want to see a good silent movie?  Well, I'm already given you a list up above to start with.  Get cracking.

Dinner last night:  Bobboli pizza with sausage and peppers.