SILENCE is golden, and, in the case of Michel Hazanavicius’s gorgeous black and white silent film, the gold will be a clutch of Oscars, probably including the coveted statuette for Best Picture.

The Artist charts the rise and fall of a dashing actor against a backdrop of tumultuous change in a bygone era of Hollywood.

Stripped bare of expository dialogue, expensive set pieces and digital trickery, Hazanavicius’s love letter to the moving image is tender, romantic and incredibly funny, reminding us that the beating heart of any film is human emotion.

Here, a single lingering glance, underscored by composer Ludovic Bource’s grand orchestration, speaks louder and clearer than reams of impassioned and heartfelt confession.

The Artist replicates film-making techniques of the past to create a warm, witty and swoonsome romance that will charm and beguile modern audiences.

Jean Dujardin is a debonair and charismatic leading man, and there is simmering screen chemistry with the luminous Berenice Bejo.

The film-maker uses sound sparingly in a nightmare sequence and he demonstrates directorial brio with a climactic scene involving a gunshot.

A rousing, toe-tapping finale, which nods and winks playfully to feel-good cinema of the 1930s, ensures we are grinning with glee when the end credits roll.