The Artist (Michel Hazanavicius, 2011)
At the age of around 8 or 9 staying over at friends' houses became a common thing. We'd stay up as late as possible, eat sweets, and watch movies. Hammer Horror being particularly popular.
One night I'd circled a film to watch. I was into myths at the time, Greek, Viking, whatever, and one film title caught my eye. The myth that I liked was about a woman who was given a box with all the evil in the world. The film had the same title.
It started late. Very late. Technically, we were supposed to be in bed and asleep. But there was a small black and white tv in the room. I put a towel down by the door, hoping to block the flickering light from creeping under the door and being spotted by grown-ups.
Much to my friend's disappointment, the film was silent. He wanted to watch something else, rolled around in disgust and banged his head against the floor begging me to change the channel, but I refused. Eventually he fell asleep.
I stayed up until the film ended: confused that it seemed to have nothing to do with the myth, but oddly enchanted all the same. It seemed to have something to do with a lady who was going through all kinds of problems. I liked the lady in the film, she had nice hair, and I felt sad when everything went wrong for her. I wasn't used to unhappy endings in films, what with being a child and all, and wanted to know more.
I found books in the library, looked the film up, and the lady. She had done other films. I was fascinated by all these silent films. No one had ever told me about them. I looked up more of them. Learned that they were often screened late at night or early in the morning. I started a collection: sitting by the vcr with milk and cookies, waiting for the silent shadows to be cast across the screen.
I love silent films. Much more than most people.
If someone came along and made a pastiche about silent films that won critical acclaim, but was in fact a bit trite and not exquisitely charming, I would tell you all about it.
This hasn't happened yet.
One night I'd circled a film to watch. I was into myths at the time, Greek, Viking, whatever, and one film title caught my eye. The myth that I liked was about a woman who was given a box with all the evil in the world. The film had the same title.
It started late. Very late. Technically, we were supposed to be in bed and asleep. But there was a small black and white tv in the room. I put a towel down by the door, hoping to block the flickering light from creeping under the door and being spotted by grown-ups.
Much to my friend's disappointment, the film was silent. He wanted to watch something else, rolled around in disgust and banged his head against the floor begging me to change the channel, but I refused. Eventually he fell asleep.
I stayed up until the film ended: confused that it seemed to have nothing to do with the myth, but oddly enchanted all the same. It seemed to have something to do with a lady who was going through all kinds of problems. I liked the lady in the film, she had nice hair, and I felt sad when everything went wrong for her. I wasn't used to unhappy endings in films, what with being a child and all, and wanted to know more.
I found books in the library, looked the film up, and the lady. She had done other films. I was fascinated by all these silent films. No one had ever told me about them. I looked up more of them. Learned that they were often screened late at night or early in the morning. I started a collection: sitting by the vcr with milk and cookies, waiting for the silent shadows to be cast across the screen.
I love silent films. Much more than most people.
If someone came along and made a pastiche about silent films that won critical acclaim, but was in fact a bit trite and not exquisitely charming, I would tell you all about it.
This hasn't happened yet.