Elizabeth and I got a babysitter, drove to
I don’t know if it was a great movie; in other words, I
question how much I was affected by the story the movie told, but one thing is
for certain: it was definitely an
experience, and we were both glad we went.
The thing about The
Artist that you need to know going in is that it is a silent movie. A real
silent movie. I guess I didn’t read the
reviews carefully enough, or maybe the surprise is supposed to be part of the
film’s charm, and so the critics purposely are concealing the fact, but neither
of us knew this at the outset. I did
know that The Artist is a movie about
silent movies; I just sort of assumed it would take the Singin’ in the Rain approach and be a movie about silent movies
without being silent itself. Perhaps the
studio and critics alike were afraid that being straightforward on this count would
only scare audiences away. However, we
both felt that knowing this up front might have saved us a great deal of
needless distraction (and honestly, impatience bordering on irritation) early
in the film while we were sitting there wondering how long things are going to
go along in silent movie mode before they inevitably went back to normal.
Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.
Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.
Besides, the fact that this truly is a silent movie is
exactly the reason why I want to encourage people to see this film, and to see
it in a theater with an audience, and not to wait for it on DVD.
When you watch this movie in a theater with an audience, you
become aware of the power of silence in film in a way that you can’t appreciate
when you’re at home by yourself. The
silence is the main character in this film; it influences everything that
happens onscreen, and even what happens in the audience. Watching this movie makes you aware of every
piece of popcorn you put in your mouth, because you hear it as you chew, and
you know people around you can hear it, too.
You become much more cognizant of how much noise moving the popcorn bag
makes, or even lifting and setting down your drink, or scratching your
nose. I have the definite feeling that a
lot of popcorn went uneaten because people were afraid of making too much noise
during the film. That wasn’t a problem
for me in particular, because I had eaten almost all of mine during the
commercials and the trailers. I don’t
think Elizabeth
Of course, the movie had a soundtrack, or more properly, a
score, so there was music throughout.
But it’s amazing that a movie can have a full musical score, and still
have so much silence in it. I guess it’s
similar to the way a solar system can have all these planets, some of them giant-sized,
and yet still have so much empty space.
Modern audiences are used to being inundated by sound at the
movies. In fact, we’re so used to noise
that the lack of it swiftly makes us uncomfortable. That’s how Elizabeth and I felt through the
first third of The Artist. As movie-goers, we are so accustomed to sound
as a constant companion that silence lasting longer than a pregnant pause is seriously
distracting. Think about it. When is the last time you were at a movie,
and refrained from eating your popcorn because you were worried about bothering
those around you? It does happen, but
those moments are rare, and they are ultimately just that…moments. When was the last time you were in a theater,
and you felt certain that you would hear it if anyone anywhere in the
auditorium passed gas? I can tell you, no foul aromas came wafting by our seats
during this movie.
So, at first it was discomfitingly quiet. Deprived of a full-on soundtrack, you can
only focus on how quiet it is around the music, and you wonder just how long
this can possibly go on. At some point,
you realize that you’re in it for the long haul; and then some time after that,
you give in to the silence. Your mind
begins adapting to it, and transfers your attention away from listening to how
quiet it is, to really watching what’s happening. Without the sounds of dialogue, and
background noise, and effects, you find that you’re tuning in much more closely
to the facial expressions of the actors, the body gestures, the movement, all
the visual information on the screen.
Without colors to distract you, (oh, did I need to tell you that The Artist is not only a silent movie,
but black and white as well?) the visual details are the only sources of
information available to you, and so your mind becomes engrossed in them.
Then something truly interesting happens. The movie starts to slow down, or more aptly
I think, open up. I’m guessing it’s an
effect of sensory deprivation, of not being distracted by the noise and the
color, but you start to feel this sense of expansion, of open space, of extra
room in your mind, and the time, to explore the things that you are seeing, the
characters, the places, objects, details.
Instead of being shellacked by the soundtrack, and mauled by the
maelstrom of color, you discover an abundance of time and space exists, and a
peaceful curiosity is allowed to blossom.
If watching a typical movie is like trying to follow a single person in
a crowded, loud, cacophonic train station, watching The Artist is like a leisurely stroll with a knowledgeable guide
through a quiet art gallery. And for
that reason, The Artist is more about
an experience than it is a movie, at least to me.
I’m not saying that I want to see more movies made like
this, and I’m certainly not arguing for a renaissance in silent movie-making;
this movie’s experience was so effective because it exists in opposition to
what we expect from a movie. If you
change those expectations, it changes the effectiveness of the experience. I think most stories benefit from the use of
color and sound, but this movie had to be made this way, because the silence is
integral to it.
The thing is, I don’t know how much of this experience will
translate when watching this movie at home.
Most homes aren’t capable of filling a soundproof and lightproof room
with a single, wall-sized image; and besides, home brings it own set of
distractions. That’s why I want to
encourage people to see this film in a theater with other people. So they can feel
what shared silence feels like, so they can be uncomfortable for a little while,
make their peace with the silence, and then be rewarded for it.
As a writer, one of the biggest obstacles I have had to
overcome was learning not to avoid the silence, learning how to be peaceful in
it, learning not to be restless in order to get the most out of myself. Modern movies are loud; they assault us with multiple
layers of simultaneous sound. And I say
that as someone who loves, adores even, sound in films. I listen to and appreciate and try to notice
great soundwork in movies. I know the
impact sound can have in telling a story.
But too often in modern movies it feels like we are simply being bombarded
by it, intimidated by it, manipulated with it, as though it’s a weapon instead
of a tool. The wall of sound created in
so many modern movies, I sometimes suspect, is being used to paper over
deficiencies of plot and character, or to deflect us from noticing thin spots
in the story, or the stacked improbabilities that would otherwise snap the band
of suspended disbelief. Sometimes it feels
like you’re watching a magician who confounds and confuses his audience with
misdirections planted offstage in order to camouflage his bad magic. We aren’t given time to think, or enough
quiet to think in, and I think that sometimes damages the experience. The Artist exposes this, and perhaps smart
filmmakers will learn from it. Think
about that amazing montage from the movie Up,
that essentially tells the life story of Carl and Ellie. No words, no noise, no bludgeoning soundtrack.
Just music and silent images. People still talk about that scene with
almost religious devotion (maybe that’s just me). There is undeniable power in silence.
You’ve probably noticed that I haven’t written at all about
the movie itself, the story or the performances, some of which were
fantastic. I don’t know how I feel about
the movie as a story. I imagine the film
will be nominated for Best Picture in a few weeks. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t know if The Artist is a great movie. I tend to think not. The story told by the movie hasn’t stuck with
me in any substantial way. But I keep
coming back to the idea that it was a powerful experience nonetheless. When you get down to it, isn’t one of the
greatest accomplishments of a film its ability to transport us to a different
place and time, and thoroughly immerse us in the experience? Isn’t that what we loved most about films
like Avatar, and Saving Private Ryan? In that
regard, this movie is an amazing achievement.
I don’t know how else I could ever say that I possess some real sense of
what it was like to go to the movies in the 1920’s. I’ve seen my share of silent movies, been
deeply touched by Chaplin, and entertained by Lloyd, and studied Keaton. But I don’t know that I knew anything about
the communal experience of a silent film, or how it differs from our
experience. The ultimate achievement of
this movie is its ability to rejuvenate that experience, and make us see how
easy it was, a hundred years ago, to fall in love with those artificial, stilted
films. Those quiet, untalking moving
images that still managed somehow to say everything.
Back when silence spoke volumes.
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