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"Hugo"’s eponymous protagonist (Asa Butterfield) peers wide-eyed through the glass face of a 1930s Parisian train station’s main clock. The bustling station scene he observes from this vantage point is busy enough, filled with all the requisite archetypes — the stern but bumbling station inspector (Sascha Baron Cohen), the cheery florist (Emily Mortimer), the cosmopolitan travelers and city ruffians — and yet despite it all, the whole sequence still felt tiring to me. In spite of the adrenaline rush I was riding — having discovered a free, discarded, only partially-eaten movie snack box just outside the theater — I found it hard to stay awake as I was subjected to shot after sweeping shot of crowds meandering through the frame.
This sleepy mood eventually subsides, however, and the film takes an unexpected turn for the hilarious as we learn that Hugo was orphaned when a fire killed his father and he was adopted by negligent alcoholic uncle. I could barely breathe during this part of the movie, though I still cannot put my finger on what exactly I found humorous about it. In any case, it must have struck some kind of funny bone because it had me wheezing uncontrollably for a good time.
Scorsese’s masterful command of 3-D filmmaking is nothing to sneeze at, but this did not stop me from doing so, violently, beginning about half an hour into the movie, hacking up mouthfuls of phlegm and blood while assuring the children seated near me in the theater that I was okay; my body was just responding strongly to the visual effects.
I vomited throughout the entire second act of “Hugo.” I could tell that the children’s parents were getting annoyed at me from the way they repeatedly asked me to leave the theater. Between convulsions, I repeatedly refused them. They failed to understand that, were I to leave the theater and write my review based on a second viewing of “Hugo,” I would be robbing myself of that initial gut reaction, that visceral first impression of a film, that which is so indispensable to the serious cinema critic. That said, I am hard-pressed to explain why the film made me vomit so much. Apparently, it is nauseating in some important way.
A mood of whimsical nostalgia is maintained from start to finish, eliciting bouts of intense pain from all parts of the body. Christopher Lee’s turn as a bookshop owner, in particular, will have you positively bleeding from multiple places. And while I can’t remember the precise details, I can assure you that the climax of “Hugo” is by turns dizzying, gut-wrenching and side-splitting. The plot twists deftly deployed by Scorsese have the effect of making one’s insides feel like they are on fire, causing one to scream continuously and thus clearing the theater of any intrepid children who remain.
You must view “Hugo” yourself to feel what I have felt. Here is a movie that at times brings tears to your eyes, at other times tugs excruciatingly on your heartstrings and always keeps you pooping. Martin Scorsese’s “Hugo” will leave you hungry for more.
“* * *”
