The Artist

On the face of it, this is basically an oddity. Someone has decided to, in this day and age, make a black and white, 4:3 ratio, silent movie. Which immediately sets of the pretentiousness alarm. Looking at it a little deeper, that is, actually watching it, what we get is essentially a pretty accurate homage to the silent movie genre, very much in the style, about a silent movie actor who is rapidly eclipsed when talking pictures come along. And also a cute little love story about a famous actor and struggling bit-part actress, whose roles are reversed when she becomes the next big thing, and he becomes yesterday's man.

Looking deeper still, though, this film, at least for me, is an examination of how cinema, of all art forms, is obsessed with progress. Once there is sound, there are no more silent movies. Once there is colour, there are no more black and white movies. Once there is wide screen, there are no more narrow movies. And this goes for direction, acting, cinematography, and so forth. With only the odd deliberately atavistic exception, cinema once it moves on, can never go back. Contrasting that with painting and drawing, where charcoal is still an intrinsically accepted medium, even in the days of Photoshop. This film examines cinema's relationship with its own past, and in doing so with the tools of the 1930s, shows us that the newest CGI, the most realistic sets and the most naturalistic acting styles aren't necessarily the correct way of doing things.