We rarely think of as great movies as breezy ones: Breeziness is supposedly only for disposable entertainment, though achieving filmmaking greatness in the way we normally think of it — with impressive sets, heavy-duty acting and ultra-polished cinematography — is probably easier than brushing a movie with just the right amount of gold dust. Michel Hazanavicius’s The Artist is a gold dust movie, a picture whose very boldness lies in its perceived lightness. This is a silent movie in black-and-white, and if it were only that, it would be a pleasant novelty. But The Artist isn’t a nostalgia trip, nor is it a scolding admonishment to honor the past. Instead, it’s a picture that romances its audience into watching in a new way — by, paradoxically, asking us to watch in an old way. The Artist is perhaps the most modern movie imaginable right now.
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REVIEW: The Artist’s Greatness Speaks Louder Than Words
