The Artist: A scintillating celebration of Hollywood’s silent stars
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The Artist was the Oscar-winning celluloid smash-hit of 2011 about Hollywood’s transition from the silent era to “the talkies”. French writer-director Michel Hazanavicius paid homage to a bygone world by adopting its aesthetic: black-and-white cinematography, quaint inter-titles and accompanying music, with sound pivotally arriving like an intruder.
It was, truly, a piece of consummate artistry. In the refusenik character of George Valentin, the silent star who resists moving with the times (played by Jean Dujardin), it enshrined the folly and the curious valour of standing up to progress.
Given its success, it’s a brave soul who ventures to add more. The pitfalls of a stage version are obvious. So it’s all hugely impressive that this project by director-choreographer Drew McOnie (now running the Regent’s Park’s Open Air Theatre), who has co-adapted the work with Lindsey Ferrentino, should arrive looking so faultlessly assured. Not only is it an artistic triumph that deserves to go far, it’s arguably even an advance on the film.
McOnie has enlivened the interval-less evening with some fitting video wizardry – courtesy of Ash J Woodward. The monochrome mise-en-scène features projections of black-and-white film-making, with tongue-in-cheek evocations of Valentin’s man of action crowd-pleasers. Title-cards and speech bubbles artfully materialise (the first words Robbie Fairchild’s Valentin utters, neatly, are “I won’t speak!”). But it’s the stage-craft that captivates most.
As before, the kingpin tumbles professionally, maritally and financially, while accidental starlet Peppy Miller becomes the talk, literally, of Tinseltown. But after beginning with stylish dance, and a beautiful period-faithful live score, as the main means of expression, McOnie and co bring speech, sound and song into the picture more emphatically. The defiant word ‘No!” by Peppy – in defiance of male directorial bullying – is a watershed moment that lets sound flood in, while keeping our hero mute.
The result is to maximise his isolation – we feel more keenly the purity of Valentin’s attachment to silence, as he stands aloof from the whirling cacophony. And as he becomes more self-destructive, a timely aspect settles on this yesterday’s man, shrinking at the rise of female power.
Every beat of the piece abounds with playfulness and surreal inventiveness. From the moment the maestro (Isaac McCullough) raises his baton, to usher in a comically silent chorus-line, to the point where Fairchild’s slumped Valentin puts his best foot forward and, startled, stumbles on a tap-shoe sound, the production doesn’t misstep.
The music, utilising the Gershwin classic Fascinating Rhythm, It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got that Swing) and more – attains a percussive jazzy delirium, matched by dreamy, witty choreography that has svelte grace and a liquid sensuousness. Fairchild is brilliantly partnered by Briana Craig as a cartwheeling, adorably pushy Peppy. But everyone’s on song, whether it be Gary Wilmot as the impatient studio boss, Thomas Walton, manhandling Valentin’s sidekick terrier Uggy with such cute dexterity the puppet canine almost runs off with the show – or Tiffany Graves as excitable Hollywood gossip columnist Gertie Gams. “I just think Wowee, Zowee!” runs a typical pronouncement. Exactly that.
Until May 25. Tickets: theatreroyal.com
