Three Reasons Why You Should See "The Artist"

In case you were wondering, you should definitely go see "The Artist," the new silent French film by Michel Hazanivicius. I know, I know -- I had you at "French."

But really.

Here's why:

1. Jokes in silent movies are funnier, the way jokes in foreign language are funnier -- because the little bit of extra effort it takes to decode them pulls you closer into the circle, makes you one of the in-crowd. That's just a fact.

2. It is a powerful, affecting silent movie about the limits of the silent movie as an art form. If there's one thing I learned in undergrad (and that is a not insignificant "if"), it is that you will always sound smart if you claim that a piece of artwork is really a commentary on art itself. But this time it's true. And what it says is that all forms are limited -- that "genre" is just another word for "limit" -- but that all forms are also infinite, or at least infinitely expressive. This is a point close to my heart because it provides the foundation for a theory of translation. Yes, all languages use a limited set of sounds and follow certain grammatical rules and developed to describe certain places and peoples. But you can translate any sentence into any language: if it can be said, it can be translated.

The first time I saw the movie, all I could talk about when I left the theater was the main character, George Valentin. I was distraught. He was so familiar -- someone who slid, and slid and would not stop himself from sliding, letting pieces of himself go until you could hardly recognize him. It was painful. It was moving. It wasn't just pantomime.

But then, the very last moment of the film -- don't worry, I won't give it away -- reminds you that there are some things you can only say with sound. It's sort of stunning.

3. It tells you how movies work and then it shows you by creating a movie that works. On you. What I mean is, in the first scene, you see George Valentin acting in a silent movie within the movie -- you see him captured by the Germans, you see a comically exaggerated torture scene, you see him left in his cell, and you see his little dog lick his face until he wakes up and lead him to safety. You see the audience within the movie caught up in the drama, you see their relief at the end. And you laugh at them. You can't help it. It's so contrived! And they're so captivated.

And then, late in the story, you see the main character of the movie you are watching nearly die only to be rescued by his little dog. And you are on the edge of your seat. I swear. All you can think is that he might die and how intolerable that would be because now you are attached to him and so are some of the other characters. You might even tear up when the policeman finally arrives to take him to the hospital. It's quite affecting.

But wait. Wasn't this the exact same device you were laughing at before? Well, yes and no.

There are different lessons to take away from this. The one I choose to hold onto is that a story is not like a magic trick -- it doesn't matter that you know how it's done, it still works. And maybe that's what's so magical -- that being caught up in a story means being subject to it, feeling what it leads you to feel without knowing why. It means losing perspective, forgetting the frame of the book or the screen.

Honestly, I don't know how it works. But I'm glad it does.