bitter review, Twitter rants, and run-on slamming of the film, I think this is a complete joke. In reading one glowing commentary after the next from the big names, movie-blogging community, and Hollywood-at-large, I began to feel as though I'd watched a completely different film. Where had people gotten this sense of something fresh and new? Where was this revelatory sort of joy coming from? The film I had seen was muted and stale, its actors approximating something they didn't fully understand, the movements plagued by a too-slight range of motion. As charming as Jean Dujardin is, I was dumbstruck that he was even nominated, now that's he's a frontrunner, I'm wondering if Hollywood even knows its own history.
Basically: I'm been sitting here shaking my head in complete confusion since December. Now, The New Yorker's David Denby has written an exhaustive piece on the art of silent film acting for the February 27th issue that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, someone did see the same forgettable novelty I sat through. Denby smartly articulates just what I've been bothered by, but does it in a way far more polite than I've been able to. Read the article at The New Yorker's site it's well worth the time.