Hugo is a film about films, though that’s not all it is. Martin Scorsese is one of a generation (or two) of film directors whose fondness for the medium is reflected in their work and life (among other notable examples: Peter Bogdanovich, Steven Spielberg, Quentin Tarantino, the Coen Brothers). Scorsese not only makes his own movies, he helps keep alive the memory of older films through his support of conservation and restoration efforts, and he makes no secret of the films and directors who influenced him.
The book ”The Invention of Hugo Cabret” was thus a splendid project for Scorsese to adapt to the screen, since one of the central characters is Georges Mèlies, a pioneer of cinema (indeed, one of the first filmmakers to utilise the film medium to depict images which did not exist “live”). Scorsese doesn’t focus solely on Mèlies, however: he pays homage to the Lumiere Brothers, Thomas Edison, Edwin S. Porter, the May-Irwin kiss, Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton, Max Linder, Douglas Fairbanks, Louise Brooks, William S. Hart, Charlie Chaplin, Louis Feuillade, the Maltese cross, Silver Streak (maybe), and many more, sometimes obviously and sometimes quite subtly. For the most part Scorsese is scrupulously accurate about details (even when 99.9999% of his audience wouldn’t notice), although there a few minor liberties have been taken (and, after all, Hugo isn’t a documentary or even a docu-drama, although it does have some factual basis).
Having just concluded another semester of “History of World Cinema I,” these names and images are fresh in my mind and will be easily recognisable to film buffs as well, but ideally some of the less-geeky viewers of Hugo will be motivated to seek out the unfamiliar and learn something of the history of cinema as a result. Without being too heavy-handed, Scorsese, scripter John Logan, and original author Brian Selznick remind us that books are good but motion pictures are the literal embodiment of dreams, and as such are a unique art form. Ironically, Hugo itself isn’t especially “dream-like” (although there are several dream sequences) in form or content, telling a rather conventional story in conventional narrative form.
Hugo Cabret, an orphan, secretly lives in the Paris train station and maintains the many clocks there. He spends his spare time attempting to repair an “automaton,” a clockwork man whose origins and purpose are unknown: this was a project Hugo and his father had begun before the latter’s tragic death, and the boy is determined to succeed in his quest to revitalise the silver figure. However, every day he must avoid apprehension by the station inspector, who delights in trapping orphans and turning them over to the authorities. Hugo is also caught pilfering small gears and such by the elderly Georges, who runs a toy shop kiosk in the train station. Hugo and Isabelle, George’s goddaughter, become friends and eventually attempt to solve the dual (but linked) mysteries of the automaton and Papa Georges.
Even if it had no other virtues, Hugo would be a stunning achievement due to its mise-en-scene. The Paris train station, the rest of the city, the inhabitants: this is the kind of sumptuous production “look” which—without calling undue attention to itself—has a profoundly positive effect on the viewing experience. This is a lovely, lovely film to look at, although without the feel of excessive pictorialism that comes with some visually-impressive movies.
The film’s narrative unfolds, as noted above, in mostly conventional fashion, although the initial focus on Hugo gradually shifts to include Papa Georges and Isabelle. One gets the impression that almost every character has a story to be told. Hints are dropped, glances are exchanged, acquaintances are made, but Hugo retains its focus, using these other stories to colour in the background and make the film much richer and more nuanced. Similarly, other than one or two deliberately didactic instances, Scorsese chooses to convey his message about the power of the movies in a restrained manner, even extrapolating his “theme” to a larger one: there are no “spare parts” in the world, everyone on Earth has a special purpose. Mèlies made films, Isabelle will become a writer, the war-disabled inspector became a “policeman” at the railway station, M. Labisse sells books, and so on. As for Hugo? Will he become an inventor, magician, filmmaker? His future, at least, is left open.
Hugo has an impressively layered cast of characters, ranging from the protagonists (Georges, Isabelle, Hugo), to major support (the inspector, Mama Jeanne), minor support (the more differentiated habitués of the train station, Hugo’s father, René Tabard), and bits (including guitarist Django Reinhardt, artist Salvador Dali, and author James Joyce, who are identified in the credits but have little to do in the film itself, so that their identities are mostly moot).
The performances are generally quite satisfactory, with a few minor exceptions that could be the result of the script rather than the actor’s intepretation. For example, Sacha Baron Cohen can’t quite seem to decide if he’s Inspector Clouseau or an actual villain (and we won’t even question why most of the major characters in a movie set in 1930s Paris have British accents), and Asa Butterfield as Hugo has too many scenes in which he’s indecisive or recalcitrant (this could be justified by his precarious status in life, although at other times he’s depicted as admirably self-sufficient and capable). Ben Kingsley is excellent and Chloe Grace Moretz (accent aside) is also very good.
Hugo has done moderately well at the box-office (it’s virtually tied with Arthur Christmas, which looks alright but is hardly in the same class, artistically) but with a reported budget of $170 million dollars, it may be a long time before it turns a profit. I’d wager that’s important to Martin Scorsese—you can’t go on making movies if your movies don’t make money, Georges Mèlies could tell you that!—but he’s got a right to be proud of what he has achieved with Hugo: a two-hour love letter to the motion picture medium, a stunning cinematic recreation of a particular time/place, and a clever, touching, and effective drama. All in all, good work, Marty.
