The Artist at the Little Theater, 3.3.12

A quaint lunch, a charming date, and decidedly brisk weather conspired to create a delightful Saturday afternoon, which concluded with a trip to the Little. Having never gone far beyond its illustrious Art Deco facade, and with two free tickets burning a hole in my pocket, I had a fine opportunity to see The Artist and wrap my head around the post-Oscar buzz. Curiosity over this modern silent film! was strong enough to lead into some reviews, most of which led me to believe that there would be a little something missing. More on that in a bit.

We're dropped into a film premiere, opening right at the climax of A Russian Affair, the latest George Valentin vehicle. The curtains swish closed, and we have our star! Valentin flashes his suave Fairbanks grin, soaking up the audience's cheers with faithful companion Uggie in tow. It becomes obvious that Valentin lives for the adoration, and is blinded so that he nearly forgets to share the stage with his female costar. As he steps out of the theater and greets his public, he has an accidental run-in with a striking mystery girl, shortly thereafter to take on a meteoric rise to fame as Peppy Miller. She soars, he crumbles under the pressure to make talking pictures; the classic "opposite trajectories" scenario. I'm not going to go into great detail with the plot, as there are several reviews already covering that ground. Ultimately, as was the standard in most early Hollywood productions, you get the happy ending.

Despite a relatively predictable plot (and mentally bracing myself for disappointment), I rather enjoyed The Artist. Jean Dujardin, sure to receive a huge boost from this film's critical success, turned out a fine performance as Valentin. While Bérénice Bejo's Peppy Miller was pretty and fun to watch, her story wasn't terribly compelling, and her character rather limited in expression; by comparison, Clifton (James Cromwell), Valentin's chauffeur, had a far more intriguing tale despite being a minor character. Peppy's one bright spot was the scene in which she pretends to give life to Valentin's tuxedo jacket...tender and humorous. Nevertheless, I found myself yearning for the likes of Clara Bow, whose bright-eyed, vivacious personality leaps off the screen, hooks you hopelessly, and never lets you go. Then again, I don't suppose that this screenplay could have handled two strong leads.

In a bitter Hollywood stew of overblown CGI, superfluous sequels, and money-hungry 3D features, the satisfying antidote is a drop of sincerity. The Artist isn't quite there. It's a breath of fresh air from the lifeless blockbusters, but not exactly groundbreaking, especially when pitted against the very films it emulates. Having seen quite a few silent films (though I am certainly no expert...I still have a lot to learn, and gladly so), I didn't feel that swell in my heart as when viewing an epic like Metropolis, or when engrossed in a story like Pandora's Box. There was a glaze of artifice where there should have been heart and soul. If you are unfamiliar with silent film, I'd suggest that you view one of the classics first, so as to understand Norma Desmond's lament. Regardless of your comfort level with the medium, if curiosity is nipping at your heels, The Artist is a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

Stray Dog at the Dryden Theatre, 8.5.10

Another fine evening at the Dryden, spent viewing an Akira Kurosawa classic, 1949's Stray Dog. The plot is centered around a fairly green cop, Murakami (Toshiro Mifune), whose gun is stolen while riding on an overcrowded bus. Sparing a rundown of the entire plotline, the film utilized several beautiful angles and shots, many of which would feel right at home in a film made tomorrow. Kurosawa particularly favored asymmetrically-framed shots, an aesthetic consistent with traditional Japanese woodblock prints. The interchanging forced perspective close-ups and long-range shots allowed for beautiful, subtle storytelling to unfold, keeping the dialogue at a bare minimum. There was a sense that you were amidst the action, conveniently tucked behind a sheer curtain or thrust against a wall in a narrow alley as the story came to life before your eyes. Another item of note: it seems that posturing and attitude denote superiority of will and/or intelligence (at least in the Kurosawa realm). The characters with the most knowledge or experience were often leaning comfortably against a railing or table, legs folded casually beneath them. Compare Murakami's stiff stance, signaling unfamiliarity and novice status, with Sato's (Takashi Shimura, another wonderful actor) eased slouch and cool attitude.

Though there was a great deal of beauty to behold in Kurosawa's cinematography, in equal measure there was a sense of despair and dismay looming through the streets and homes of postwar Japan, culminating in a moment that will surely linger in my consciousness for the coming days and nights...(after the jump, in case you'd like to remain unspoiled by the plot)


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Murakami has at long last reunited with his Colt, though not without seeing the damage that it had inflicted upon several innocent people. Collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss, he is relieved but far too weary to celebrate. Lying next to him, in handcuffs, is the equally weary Yusa, the culprit. Worn down by a lost war and his own social inadequacies, among other factors, he is particularly sensitive. In the distance, a group of small children marches along the fields, cheerfully singing the praises of the cherry blossoms; it is at this moment, as he notices the blooms hovering above him, recalling the criminal nature that has set forth from his own hands, that his soul completely shatters. He releases a scream so primal and blood-curdling that will stun anyone and everyone in its wake. A devastating, wordless expression of humanity's unbelievable power, used alternately for better and for worse. Stark, pure, undeniably humbling.