2011 was not a great year for movies. Tree of Life was fascinating but also a little nauseating. Margin Call was great but depressing. The only movie that felt new to me was The Artist. It was lively, funny, quirky, smart. It was a fun poem without words. It made me connect with the audience in a way that I had never experienced. The best part of the movie? It reminded me of standing in front of the attic mirror when I was eight years old. My grandmother had a chest full of antique clothes and shoes. I was wearing a swing dress, tap shoes (ok, men’s dress shoes that I pretended were tap shoes), stranding faux peals around my neck, and toting an elegant clutch purse. Then I bounced down the stairs to show my grandmother and her guests my newest tap number (which was usually atrocious). There were times when she wouldn’t shoo me away. Instead, she would introduce me to her guests and allow them the pleasure of watching my exotic tap performance, smile and exclaim, “Wasn’t that just lovely?!?” in her beautiful southern drawl. There was something about her emphasis on the word lovely that made me feel vital and special.
The Artist, like those special childhood memories, made me feel just lovely.
Stay classy you sassy broads (and to the men that love them)!!!!