It’s been such a long time since I had a movie that I really, really loved. One that moved my soul, that stirred something deep in me. I wanted The Artist to be a movie that brought about that response. But, it wasn’t.
I admit, I thought it might be boring, from reading the description. But I put that thought aside as I bought my ticket, “One for The Artist, please.” It takes some planning ahead for me to get to a movie. By myself. In the middle of the day. Now is a fine time for a hat tip to Greg Taylor for graciously providing some time and space for me after a 6-day stint of single parenting this week while he traveled for work.
The last movie I saw at this theater was The Lorax. Complained about how incredibly loud it was. I still wonder why they had the volume so high. The Artist was shown in the smallest theater, and with the dozen or so “One for The Artist” moviegoers, there was plenty of room. I found myself wishing for a little MORE volume on this one, since a nearby patron perhaps was unhealthy and made distracting little breathing, sniffing, and coughing noises every few minutes. (Oh, and she did go ahead and take the call she received so she could tell the caller she was at the movies.)
I know, I know. First, it’s too loud. Then, it’s too soft. I wondered if I would have had the same response to it had Kevin Kline been in the starring role. Some of the movies I have loved had him in the starring role, but I wondered what it would be like to see him in a silent role. Berenice Bejo (Peppy Miller) was delightful, beautiful and full of life. I believe that many moviegoers found this to be a wonderful experience, and it was a very well-made film. [But], to paraphrase Randy Jackson, ‘I just wasn’t feeling, it, dawg.”