Remember the old days, when movies were glorious, magical and mute? Neither do I. But the passing of the silent era from memory into myth is what The Artist, Michel Hazanavicius’s dazzling cinematic objet d’art, is all about. This is not a work of film history but rather a generous, touching and slightly daffy expression of unbridled movie love. Though its protagonist mourns the arrival of sound, “The Artist” itself is more interested in celebrating the range and power of a medium that can sparkle, swoon and suffer so beautifully that it doesn’t really need to have anything to say.
— A.O. Scott, NY TIMES (x)
Reblogged from laughing alone in rooms
