The Unbearable Empty-ness of Being Cute; or How to Sweep the Oscars

Michel Hazanavicius' "The Artist" is going to sweep the Oscars tonight (and as I am posting it, the prediction has come true). Every single award ceremony this year stands testimony to that. Indeed, if it does not, we can in all justification call it a 'revolutionary' day. And all we know revolutions do not take place in Hollywood. I also suspect all 'miracles'; they belong to the lazy and the guilty.

I condemn that. I know it is slightly stupid to condemn an Oscar favourite. (Who is being naive now, Kay?) But I still condemn because it is an issue that is not restricted to one single film. I condemn a trend.
"The Artist" is an almost silent film, and IMDB lists it as a 'romance'. It was shot in colour, and then transferred into black-&-white in the post-production stage; if you observe the light flares in certain shots closely, you will be able to deduce it. Which is a godsend, because that is the only worthwhile thing you might do during the screening.

The story of the film is abysmally simple. Once upon a time--and did I tell you I hate that beginning?--there was a great silent film star. In Hollywood mythology, great male stars are always from the silent era. The concerned star here is a combination of many such real figures, but the main reference here is obviously Douglas Fairbanks. He also has a dog (reminded me of Asta from the Thin Man series), a chauffeur, a disgruntled and cold wife (Penelope Ann Miller, wasted here), and a mansion. An ordinary girl bumps into him in front of the media glare, capitalizes it to gain a foothold in the industry, and a couple of films later, the star finds himself going through the ignominy of multiple takes so that he could dance with the girl working as an extra. In the meanwhile, sound comes. The star laughs at it. Does not think it is worth a penny. We all know what happens after that: he becomes bankrupt. But the girl's love must get him back. Does she succeed? Producers love such 'succinct' scripts; you can sell it to a stone-deaf man reading it aloud!

Then there is another film which plays through this one: Singing in the Rain. In fact, the male-female duo almost explicitly re-enact the same relation. Both the stars of the film--Jean Dujardin and Beatrice Bejo--are good dancers, and there is a bravura long take of their dancing at the end of the movie. A happy account of film history: silent era transformed itself to become the Musical!

Is there anything else in the movie? Yes, there is. None of the plot mentioned above are beyond and above the mannerism of the film. Indeed, the whole film plays like a museum slide-show of lost mannerisms and quirks of silent films. Problem is, if you have seen silent films well enough, you will find them ludicrous. And isn't it sad to find a French director equating the whole of silent cinema with Hollywood, that too a very limited perception about its complexity? What troubled me even more is the fact that the film could not decide what it wanted to be: an allegory of an ego-bound man's redemption, or a discourse about silent cinema, and stardom? But that is not a fault, or even a mistake. That is the signature of certain types of contemporary film. I call them the 'cuties'.

Hazanavicius and Dujardin, both of their previous claim-to-fame was through making nice and domestic-quality spoofs. In one sense, this is also a spoof which has lost its teeth. It does not know what to bite, it might have even forgotten that it is supposed to bite. There is a contemporary euphemism for such films: homage. But let us not bemoan the collective bad taste of our contemporaneity.

Spoof, as a genre, or even pastiche or homage, are necessarily bound to their reference, thus much more topical, contemporary and thus intentionally political than other films. You can not justify a spoof simply by saying I wanted to make one; you have to show more reasons. When spoof as a genre began to emerge as a major generic force in the Western world, it was downright subversive. When Mars Attacks! was made by Tim Burton, it not only lampooned Independence Day, it took mega-size pot-shots at American politics and mass culture. What followed next was the oft-repeated story of the domestication of a powerful cinematic weapon by the industry, and a slow dissipation of its energy into other fields and interests.

By the time "The Artist" is made, a pastiche or a homage has ended up being an euphemism for the most superficial brand of nostalgia films. In one sense, The Artist is a biopic that does not even want to go through the rigour-s of one. The psychological depth of a star's narcissism is lost in the quagmire of stylistic bravura. There is a section where Dujardin's character finds himself unable to produce sound in real life as well. Brilliant touch, but does the film follow it up? No, it does not. Is the film even knowledgeable by half about the silent film industry it refers to? No. The film resembles two things, firstly, a Disneyland trip through the supposed 'old golden age', and the crowd-pleasing antics of movie-stars doing 'numbers'. And I think that is precisely why the movie 'sells' across barriers, and is a darling for both Cannes and Academy Awards. And it is a crying shame that it is the recent bed-partner of Independent Spirit awards as well. Where is the spirit, dude, let alone the 'independent' part?

What we have in our hands is a new cinematic trend. In one sense, you can compare it to 'political correct-ness', although it is much shallower than that. It is a cinematic practice that carefully and almost pedantically sanitizes a film of all excess, depth, decision. It is the art of making a film without making one. You tell a story, but it is not 'your' story; you have a style, but not 'your' style, but always of someone else. And it is here the spoof/pastiche/homage angle comes in. This technique of talking in other's voice and accent comes from those genres. But unlike a true generic film, films like the "The Artist" has nothing to say beyond impersonation. If you take away the stylistic and other stereotypical quotations from "The Artist", you will be left with nothing. For a spoof, that is never the case. Thus, it is obviously symptomatic of a malaise that "The Artist" sweeps the awards and "Hugo" is left with technical awards, as if one is dealing with a Harry Potter franchise here. Obviously, serious engagement with history is too dangerous for the Cinema honcho-s of our time. [My friend Iman Mitra has promised me a piece on Hugo and The Artist, which I shall publish on this blog. With his erudition, I think he will delve much deeper into the comparison. I am merely extemporizing my feelings here]

Cinema is not supposed to be 'safe', and not supposed to be 'cute'. Even the most reviled populist films of Bollywood has more edge than this one. We live in an age of empty gestures, impersonations, stylistic pirouettes, technical skulduggery. As a historical period, it reminds me more of the Mannerist period of painting in Italy. We are exhausted of the creative achievements of our periods. The sterility of our imagination finds its best use in impersonation.

I think my point is buttressed by the fact that Maryl Streep winning the Best Actress statuette. She is a great actress, but in this particular film, she is left impersonating furiously with no character build-up whatsoever. It was role which went nowhere. And now, we have a candidate who won the prize simply because she could impersonate so well! Which is however better, because the Best Actor's performance consisted of being charming and showing a good set of teeth! Yes, I understand one feels nostalgic about Gene Kelly and his peers, but that does not justify valourizing a medium-quality impersonator!

If we love cinema at all, if we believe that it has the capacity of thought and expression, if we think it is more than a joyride, we need to condemn it, not just because of personal distaste, but because we are responsible as a community.