Five seconds into the film–nay, five seconds into the previews–I knew: This movie’s going to be good.
Unfortunately, my instincts proved me wrong. I should like to add that this is only the second time this has happened, the first time being when I thought that they were the droids I was looking for.
Where was I? Ah, yes. My instincts had just proven me wrong. The Artist wasn’t good. It was effing incroyable. It was like a cinematic macchiato of magical metaphorical zebragi, wherein the zebragi were actually neat Dutch angles and/or jokes contained in miniscule detail, such as the title “The German Affair” on a clapperboard.
Of course, it wasn’t the Dutch angles or the charming jokes or even the steamily beautiful Bérénice Bejo that sold the film for me–no, the absolute best thing about The Artist was the sheer Frenchness of it all.
What, you ask, how can a silent b&w film about Hollywood in the late 1920s early 1930s be that French?
That, my friends, is a question for the ages. In other words: It just is, okay?! In fact, it is so French that it makes Jeunet’s Micmacs look American; so French it makes Godard look Swiss; so French that it makes French fries look Swedish.
So, in short: If you want to see a movie with no artistic value and lots of explosions that’s pretty much only good for wanking off to, then I suggest you go see any given Michael Bay ever made. However, if you want your socks knocked off by an allegorical explosion of sheer awesome, then I highly suggest you go see The Artist. Right. Now.