Michel Hazanavicius’ “The Artist” is truly an endeavor of artistic magnitude; void in most top tier films, let alone low tier.
The story takes on the transcendence of human emotion, empathy and sensitivity, with more brilliance and tact than any film in recent history. The rustling, bustling, spitting representation of the Hollywood glitz and glamour at the beginning of the Golden Age of Film, intermixed with gloom the Great Depression caused, conveyed a sense of humility and mortality to Jean Dujardin’s protagonist, George Valentin.
As for his counterpart, Bérénice Bejo’s Peppy Miller, she carried out her performance with extreme ease, sprinkled with magnificent delight of a visceral nature.
Looking back over the thousands of films I’ve seen, only a handful caused me to weep from my very core, due to the sheer proficiency of which the thematic elements were presented.
“The Artist” will forever be one of the great films of all-time; most indubitably– noteworthy to the defiant nature films portray when battling out for the top spot(s) in cinema history.
This masterpiece has earned its way into my favorites list, which is seemingly impenetrable.