Film Review: Hugo 3D

Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather is about men who do terrible things in the name of family.
Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas is about men, who do terrible things.

Martin Scorsese is without a doubt filmmaker whose skills exceed most others, there is no doubt that he is a master of his craft from the visuals, performances and the cutting of his work. Paradoxically however, for someone who’s work is seldom compared in the same breath as Kubrick’s alienating inhumanity. Scorsese knows people better than ole’ Stanley K, but his movies feel just as coldly robotic. The comparison of Hugo’s very own automaton with Scorsese’s workmanlike direction is too juicy, but it’s sadly true. That’s not to say it’s never intriguing to look at, the craftsmanship is impressive but it doesn’t offer much to the human condition.

The story, well that would depend on which story is being told here. The story of Hugo Cabret’s mysterious clockwork robot? The story of Hugo Cabret, a mysterious young boy living amongst the clocks of Paris’ Gare Montparnasse railway station. His yearning for life beyond the station walls, like a latter day Quasimodo? The story of depressed ex-film pioneer Georges Méliès and his lost classics? Or maybe the numerous subplots dotted around the station will take your fancy? The guard and his intrepid Doberman? The fair faced florist and her deceased husband? Or perhaps the romance between Richard Griffiths doddery paperman and Frances de la Tour’s tea sipping, lapdog petting café owner? Had enough? Well knuckle up because convolution and whimsical excess is the order of the day. True many of these side-shows are symptomatic of French cinema (see also Amélie and this year’s The Adventure’s of Adèle Blanc-Sec) but with an already conflicted central narrative, such reverence interferes with whatever point there was in the first place.

Not helping matters are the frequent disparities in storytelling logic. Hugo’s entrapment in the station is rendered moot when he can simply walk out the front door willy-nilly. Unlike Spielberg’s The Terminal, there’s no ultimatum. Hugo’s uncle (Ray Winstone) barely registers for less than three minutes of screen time, after that point Hugo is alone. The only antagonist being Sasha Baron Cohen’s bumbling guard (and his Doberman). The film is so earnest that any chance of a credible antagonist is scuppered (Hugo’s Uncle needed to be the Frollo to Hugo’s hunchback), so earnest in fact that it fails to establish any conflict. Yes, stories no matter how soft need conflict. Even the gleeful likes of Miyazaki’s My Neighbour Totoro and Kiki’s Delivery Service knew to infuse their stories with a central threat or dramatic crux (a hospitalised mother, a rite of passage etc). The film here has a habit of gliding through the proceedings, dovetailing into irrelevant branches (Hugo is taught slight of hand tricks, why?) and continuing resolved plot threads. A particular plot device is taken, threatened with destruction and promptly destroyed. The owner continues his quest to look for it, regardless of the fact that it is no more. Even if it wasn’t eradicated, he sure as hell never gets it back.

The much vaunted 3D, proclaimed by many as a breath of new life into a saturated marketplace is, acceptable. The separation between background, midground and indeed foreground is crisp and any ghosting is unnoticeable. Steam, prop swords, pendulums and that bleeding Doberman thrust into the camera at frequent intervals. It’s efficient, but there is rarely a sense of the medium not only be used as a storytelling medium, or even a filmmaking medium. Everything is in deep focus, depth is constantly present in the frame. Begging the question of why nobody has attempted a rack-focus in 3D? For a movie with a persistent (albeit admirable) call for the preservation of silent cinema, the conversion of Méliès’ A Trip to the Moon and the Lumière Bros’ groundbreaking Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat into 3D sits curiously between revisionism and reverence. Sure, the film dramatises the famed audience reaction, as punters ducked and shrieked as the train passed the camera. 3D is added presumably to demonstrate modern audiences into the illusion conjured back in 1896, the problem is that this film’s use of 3D is only ever cosmetic. The sepia patina and blue highlights separate the prominent elements in the frame, depth of field has been employed spectacularly since the beginning of the last century. Ironically this film – in its quest to educate the contemporary masses to the delights of silent classics Metropolis, Safety Last, Modern Times, Chaplin’s The Tramp – proves it. Thus the great Martin Scorsese has unintentionally rendered his use of the medium a gimmick ridden excercise, not to mention directing an unintentional critique on the format. Still, it looks nice though.

With all things considered, this is not a terrible film. The content is accessible for all ages, but its storytelling ability is sluggish and unfocused, dragging its feet and prolonging its 130 minute running time. Pitched somewhere awkwardly between The Terminal and Cinema Paradiso, the film has an eye for celluloid but the heart of a machine.