Search found 1 match: Malcolm McDowell

there's a moment in michel hazanavicius' infectious silent-era pastiche the artist when washed up superstar george valentin's disenchanted wife equates his inability to follow cinema's progression into the talkie with his refusal to face/fix the crumbling state of his marriage, raising the question of whether it's magical innocence or just wilful, destructive ignorance that's slowly sucked out of cinema by the decade as though into quicksand. it's a question that's etched as deep into the film as the lines on malcolm mcdowell's aging face, lines which seem to disappear for fleeting moments when his eyes really shine.

the most memorable scene, an ingenious nightmare sequence where george begins hearing sounds and freaks the fuck out, taps into an anxiety that hits us all somewhere along the road; the sense that the world is starting to run away from us, leaving us clinging to relics hiding in some dark room under a dusty sheet. the answer hazanavicius offers is wisely bittersweet, allowing us to honour our memories with the dignified tribute they deserve, but warning that we can't hide back there forever, lest our lives burn up like an old film reel.