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Last week I was totting up the movies I saw in 2011, and observing that while I saw several good ones, there was none that stood out as a really noteworthy best of the year. But today I saw Hugo. Had I seen it in 2011 when it came out, it certainly would have been the best movie I saw that year, and probably in several other years. Go see it, quick as ever you can.
I loved this movie. I don’t just mean that I liked it very much; I mean that I fell in love with it, both immediately and gradually, at first cautiously (I’ve been let down by visually beautiful stories before!) and then with the blossoming of heartfelt affection. It dazzled me with splendor and then filled me with tender warmth, and ultimately made me cry in the best way.
The eponymous Hugo is a 1930s orphan who lives among and maintains the Paris train station’s inner clockworks, and this is all you really need to know as the film immediately draws you into this masterfully rendered tale. It begins with a sweeping sequence that pursues Hugo through the bowels of the clock machinery. It’s not just a technically impressive shot; it is an exhilarating exploration that establishes the environment as a convincing dimensional reality and makes you hunger to see more, to veer off and explore this vivid world which stretches believably in every direction.
I felt a bit resigned when the next scene launches a slapstick chase sequence; it’s a vivacious but fairly stock bit that establishes the main antagonist, a tyrannical gendarme and his trusty Doberman, and it felt designed to amuse the little kids in the audience. Fortunately the movie only plays briefly with the slapstick aspect, and later manages to put more depth into the gendarme than one expects from his initial caricature.
That was my only moment of doubt. After its initial broad strokes, the story has a delicate and deft unfolding. As the first scenes unroll, I expected to hear the sort of warm fatherly narration that usually accompanies such fables, encompassing the tale in a safe retrospective way that implies there will be a future that can look back fondly at these events. But there wasn’t one, and I was glad; the movie has no need to tell us what to feel, because it can simply show us, and wait for us to see. Like its opening shots, many of the film’s best sequences are wordless, or nearly so, and some of its moments of greatest drama happen in stillness and silence. It’s a skillful storyteller indeed who can create tension without relying on music or even dialogue.
Hugo is played perfectly by Asa Butterfield, who has unsettling blue eyes a bit like Elijah Wood’s, but mostly reminds me of a younger Harold from Harold and Maude. He is a scrawny, moist, pallid wight, as befits a kid who spends his time crawling around the insides of clockworks and eats by stealing from the station vendors. He is appealing, but not cute in an obnoxious Hollywood way; his skilled performance allows us to like the kid without being manipulated into it. Isabelle, a fellow orphan with a slightly more normal homelife, manages to be intelligent and well-read yet likewise not excessively cute; she is warm and optimistic, bringing hope and companionship into Hugo’s lonely existence. Together they unlock the intersecting mysteries of their backgrounds and the wounded adults around them.
There is not much that is particularly unexpected about the plot, but that makes it no less enjoyable; just like seeing a rendition of a classic fairy tale or a well-known Shakespeare play, the point is the way the story is told, and here it is told with such love and craft and beauty that it is irresistible. The rhythms are right and satisfying. Yet the story is also layered and skillful; it unfolds multiple themes and subjects. Many have called it a love letter to early cinema, and it certainly is that, but it is also a love letter to books, to storytelling in all its forms. The love and resurrection of old films is important, but it doesn’t overtake the real point of the story, which is the redemption of several broken hearts.
A very striking aspect of the film’s visuals is its palette of warm sepias, deep reds, and dazzling blues. After noticing this color scheme in the first scenes, I watched for it, and it stays consistent throughout; I saw only one touch of (muted) green in the movie! It’s an ambitious and gorgeously successful feat of digital color grading that makes everything seem special and lively, from the watery intensity of Hugo’s blue eyes to the jagged gravel beneath the train tracks. Unlike more monochromatic sepia-toned movies such as Benjamin Button, The Illusionist, and Amelie, this movie is not trying to look like an old movie, but to evoke a richer, more textured and inviting and atmospheric world than the saturated color and slick surfaces that surround us now.
Oh, such atmosphere! Every setting is luscious and fascinating, full of details the eye longs to linger on. I’ve been in the more modern incarnation of that Paris station, and was able to feel a glimpse of recognition amid the wonder of seeing it in a wholly different way. Hugo lives in an atmosphere of constant steam and slanting light, dripping faucets and warm croissants, spinning gears and meticulous machinery, callous crowds and delicate art nouveau flourishes layered with soot. There is a toy store and a book store crammed deliciously full of untidy delights. Even Hugo’s beloved clockworks are warm and inviting in their intricate, reliable precision, not cold at all. Hugo is so tied to this place that it’s a bit surprising when he is actually able to walk out its doors. But beyond the station’s walls, there is a palatial library so luminous that it is like a transcendant cathedral of books; I wanted to go there so much it made my mouth water. I could spend hours exploring the film scholar’s room of arcane devices. Even a modest garret contains marvelous discoveries.
I love how this film gives us plenty of exciting moments, but also takes its time in the unfolding of friendship and emotion, allowing an unhurried pace for those important moments. I am so glad (though surprised) that Scorsese made this movie, not some flashy Hollywood wunderkind who would feel obliged to add more action sequences and winking sarcasm. Scorsese knows that wonder is an effect best built with care and skill. He works with confidence, verve, and utter command of both new tools (CGI wizardry) and old ones (pacing, editing, strong performances). At the end of the movie I felt artistic invigoration paired oddly with a warm relaxation and gratitude: I felt satisfied, replete; I knew I had been carried in the hands of a master storyteller, delivered with respect and care.
Note: I saw Hugo in 2-D. It certainly didn’t need 3-D to pull off its marvels, but I am a bit curious to compare the versions. I haven't read the book, and am curious to compare that too.
I loved this movie. I don’t just mean that I liked it very much; I mean that I fell in love with it, both immediately and gradually, at first cautiously (I’ve been let down by visually beautiful stories before!) and then with the blossoming of heartfelt affection. It dazzled me with splendor and then filled me with tender warmth, and ultimately made me cry in the best way.
The eponymous Hugo is a 1930s orphan who lives among and maintains the Paris train station’s inner clockworks, and this is all you really need to know as the film immediately draws you into this masterfully rendered tale. It begins with a sweeping sequence that pursues Hugo through the bowels of the clock machinery. It’s not just a technically impressive shot; it is an exhilarating exploration that establishes the environment as a convincing dimensional reality and makes you hunger to see more, to veer off and explore this vivid world which stretches believably in every direction.
I felt a bit resigned when the next scene launches a slapstick chase sequence; it’s a vivacious but fairly stock bit that establishes the main antagonist, a tyrannical gendarme and his trusty Doberman, and it felt designed to amuse the little kids in the audience. Fortunately the movie only plays briefly with the slapstick aspect, and later manages to put more depth into the gendarme than one expects from his initial caricature.
That was my only moment of doubt. After its initial broad strokes, the story has a delicate and deft unfolding. As the first scenes unroll, I expected to hear the sort of warm fatherly narration that usually accompanies such fables, encompassing the tale in a safe retrospective way that implies there will be a future that can look back fondly at these events. But there wasn’t one, and I was glad; the movie has no need to tell us what to feel, because it can simply show us, and wait for us to see. Like its opening shots, many of the film’s best sequences are wordless, or nearly so, and some of its moments of greatest drama happen in stillness and silence. It’s a skillful storyteller indeed who can create tension without relying on music or even dialogue.
Hugo is played perfectly by Asa Butterfield, who has unsettling blue eyes a bit like Elijah Wood’s, but mostly reminds me of a younger Harold from Harold and Maude. He is a scrawny, moist, pallid wight, as befits a kid who spends his time crawling around the insides of clockworks and eats by stealing from the station vendors. He is appealing, but not cute in an obnoxious Hollywood way; his skilled performance allows us to like the kid without being manipulated into it. Isabelle, a fellow orphan with a slightly more normal homelife, manages to be intelligent and well-read yet likewise not excessively cute; she is warm and optimistic, bringing hope and companionship into Hugo’s lonely existence. Together they unlock the intersecting mysteries of their backgrounds and the wounded adults around them.
There is not much that is particularly unexpected about the plot, but that makes it no less enjoyable; just like seeing a rendition of a classic fairy tale or a well-known Shakespeare play, the point is the way the story is told, and here it is told with such love and craft and beauty that it is irresistible. The rhythms are right and satisfying. Yet the story is also layered and skillful; it unfolds multiple themes and subjects. Many have called it a love letter to early cinema, and it certainly is that, but it is also a love letter to books, to storytelling in all its forms. The love and resurrection of old films is important, but it doesn’t overtake the real point of the story, which is the redemption of several broken hearts.
A very striking aspect of the film’s visuals is its palette of warm sepias, deep reds, and dazzling blues. After noticing this color scheme in the first scenes, I watched for it, and it stays consistent throughout; I saw only one touch of (muted) green in the movie! It’s an ambitious and gorgeously successful feat of digital color grading that makes everything seem special and lively, from the watery intensity of Hugo’s blue eyes to the jagged gravel beneath the train tracks. Unlike more monochromatic sepia-toned movies such as Benjamin Button, The Illusionist, and Amelie, this movie is not trying to look like an old movie, but to evoke a richer, more textured and inviting and atmospheric world than the saturated color and slick surfaces that surround us now.
Oh, such atmosphere! Every setting is luscious and fascinating, full of details the eye longs to linger on. I’ve been in the more modern incarnation of that Paris station, and was able to feel a glimpse of recognition amid the wonder of seeing it in a wholly different way. Hugo lives in an atmosphere of constant steam and slanting light, dripping faucets and warm croissants, spinning gears and meticulous machinery, callous crowds and delicate art nouveau flourishes layered with soot. There is a toy store and a book store crammed deliciously full of untidy delights. Even Hugo’s beloved clockworks are warm and inviting in their intricate, reliable precision, not cold at all. Hugo is so tied to this place that it’s a bit surprising when he is actually able to walk out its doors. But beyond the station’s walls, there is a palatial library so luminous that it is like a transcendant cathedral of books; I wanted to go there so much it made my mouth water. I could spend hours exploring the film scholar’s room of arcane devices. Even a modest garret contains marvelous discoveries.
I love how this film gives us plenty of exciting moments, but also takes its time in the unfolding of friendship and emotion, allowing an unhurried pace for those important moments. I am so glad (though surprised) that Scorsese made this movie, not some flashy Hollywood wunderkind who would feel obliged to add more action sequences and winking sarcasm. Scorsese knows that wonder is an effect best built with care and skill. He works with confidence, verve, and utter command of both new tools (CGI wizardry) and old ones (pacing, editing, strong performances). At the end of the movie I felt artistic invigoration paired oddly with a warm relaxation and gratitude: I felt satisfied, replete; I knew I had been carried in the hands of a master storyteller, delivered with respect and care.
Note: I saw Hugo in 2-D. It certainly didn’t need 3-D to pull off its marvels, but I am a bit curious to compare the versions. I haven't read the book, and am curious to compare that too.
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