Okay, I've been a bit down on "The Artist" since day one. And I took another shot this morning. Well, allow me to take one more.
Really, I don't want to be a wet blanket. I appreciate that people are discovering and loving the movie on the festival circuit. I think it's a thin sort of satisfaction, though, and oddly enough, some of the same people who took "The King's Speech" to task for being (in their view) a trifle against the STAGGERING density of "The Social Network" last year are glomming onto Michel Hazanavicius's film like it were a blast of freshness. It's not. It's novel. And charming. And yes, it celebrates Hollywood's Golden Age, which is delightful.
The thing is, when I see a runaway locomotive narrative getting out of hand like the idea that "we should award 'The Artist' because it celebrates film history" or what have you, I feel like I have to step in. Especially since that narrative isn't at all unique to "The Artist" this season, or even this weekend, for that matter.