The Artist

Our collective imagination is flabby. Atrophied, I fear, from disuse.

Many of us would rather wait for the movie than read the book. Incarnating a character in our heads is too much work. We have an appetite for car chases, and explosions, and skin. These seem more accessible than subtle beauty or complexity of story.

Every now and again, a work of art comes along that challenges our imagination. That calls to that creative spark deep inside each of us. A work that nourishes us along the way with such excruciating loveliness that we are helpless to refuse.

The Artist is such a work.

It is a story without words. Nearly. A silent film about the end of silent film. In fact, until George Valentin has a nightmare in which he is surrounded by sound but unable to speak, I am unaware that even environmental sounds are completely absent. No shuffle of shoes against the floor. No honking horns. Only music. And image.

It is enough.

Sometimes the images are so exquisitely framed, it is painful. Two figures at table. Back to back. The falling star and the supernova. In stark relief. Both so graceful and elegant. So captivating. Alas, she is coming into her own just as his world is disappearing.

But somewhere inside this passing of the torch is a respect…an honoring of the one who made place. Who had faith. A loyalty that is right and good. And Beautiful.

Go see The Artist. Give yourself the gift of an hour and a half without words. Let the music carry you. Feast on the scrumptious images: the clothes, the hair, the cars. The elegance and refinement of a world too unfamiliar to most of us. And trust your imagination to help tell the story. It is more capable than you think.