It’s hard to be dapper in the age of rappers. The whole idea of wealthy chic went out with the top hat, and the art of deference. Perhaps we had to see the rich like jewels – something rare and precious – in order for them to shine. In Michel Hazanavicius’ movie, The Artist, we’re tastefully transported back to a time when film stars were treated like aristocrats. The movie is an air kiss to silent cinema. In execution, it’s as impeccable as a Cartier watch. I’m not sure it’s about anything, other than giving pleasure, but I felt about a thousand times more suave for having seen it. Perhaps it’s enough, to be like a movie-lover of the 1920s: to swoon over trompe l’oeil, and to feel the romance of life in lustrous black and white.