REVIEW: Silent 'Artist' speaks to all

Is it possible to forget that “The Artist” is a silent film in black and white and simply focus on it as a movie? That’s what people seem to zero in on. They cannot imagine themselves seeing such a thing.

Yet, here is one of the most entertaining films in many a moon, a film that charms because of its story, its performances, and because of the sly way it plays with being silent and black-and-white. “The Artist” knows you’re aware that it’s silent, and kids you about it. Not that it’s entirely silent, of course; like all silent films were, it’s accompanied by music. You know — like in a regular movie when nobody’s talking?

One of its inspirations was probably “Singin’ in the Rain,” a classic about a silent-film actress whose squeaky voice didn’t work in talkies, and about the perky little unknown actress who made it big because hers did. The heroine (Debbie Reynolds) fell in love with an egomaniacal silent-film star — but a nice one? Played by Gene Kelly in 1952 and by Jean Dujardin now, he has one of those dazzling smiles you suspect dazzles no one more than himself. Dujardin, who won best actor for this role at Cannes 2011, looks like a cross between Kelly and Sean Connery, and has such a command of comic timing and body language that he might have been, well, a silent star.

Dujardin plays George Valentin, who has a French accent. The industry brushes him aside when the pictures start to speak, and he’s left alone and forlorn in a shabby apartment with only his dog for company.

At a crucial moment he’s befriended by Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), who when they met was a hopeful dancer and has now found great fame. The fans love her little beauty mark, which Valentin penciled in with love when she was a nobody.

As was often the case in silent-film days, the cast of “The Artist” includes actors with many native tongues. John Goodman  is the bombastic studio head, and such familiar faces as James Cromwell, Penelope Ann Miller, Missi Pyle and Ed Lauter turn up.

At 39, Jean Dujardin is well-known in France. He would indeed have made a great silent star. His face is almost too open and expressive for sound, except comedy. As Norma Desmond, the proud silent star in “Sunset Boulevard,” hisses: “We didn’t need dialogue. We had faces!” More than some silent-film actors, he can play subtle as well as broad, and that allows him to negotiate the hazards of some unbridled melodrama at the end. I felt a great affection for him.

I’ve seen “The Artist” three times, and each time it was applauded, perhaps because the audience was surprised at itself for liking it so much. It is speaking to all ages in a universal language. Silent films can weave a unique enchantment. During a good one, I fall into a reverie state, an encompassing absorption that drops me out of time.

I also love black-and-white, which some people assume they don’t like. For me, it’s more stylized and less realistic than color, more dreamlike, more concerned with essences than details.

Giving a speech once, I was asked by parents what to do about their kids who wouldn’t watch black-and-white. “Do what Bergman’s father did to punish him,” I advised. “Put them in a dark closet and say you hope the mice don’t run up their legs.”