The Artist

 Saw The Artist last night: the much-worshipped, apparently Oscar-worthy, film that follows the rise and fall of fictional silent film star George Valentin in 20s Hollywoodland. It’s a beautiful film, a lovely, stylish, gently humorous look at a glamorous past world. The stars are wonderful. Bérénice Bejo as new-fangled talkies’ cheeky darling Peppy Miller is endearing and Jean Dujardin as the suave Valentin is equally engaging. Really, it’s a lovely film. I just can’t quite understand the excitement and excessive use of superlatives it has engendered in everyone. 10 Oscar noms for a film without a script? There is too much missing for this to be an outstanding film. No nuance except that held in an actor’s expression, which, granted, can sometimes be amazing in itself, but to run the whole hour and a half with nothing more than a fixed two or three characters' smiles, gurns and grins really is a little much. The references to “mugging”, vilified by the new wave of talkies cinema, have an unavoidable truth to them for me.

Plus that cute little doggy is utterly annoying.