No, not that Hugo.
Before I get into the titled diatribe, I owe it to my best friend, who has been recently been encouraging me to shit and stay on the pot; namely, to update this more than twice a year, to say something about my life since the last rant about John Gray, who, by the way, sucks just as much now as he did in August.
My lack of activity on the blogosphere is the mathematical result of the common equation work+hobbies+man=all my time; I honestly don`t know how children fit into this.. there must be some calculus involved. In any case, since August, I have fallen most happily into the perfect relationship and am moving in with mah man next month. We`ve become quite the alt. club power dance couple and can cut many fine Persian rugs on the floor; I`m hoping it`s out of respect for our combined talent, but it may equally be the result the other dancers defending themselves from my sporadic Bon Jovi kicks. That move may not translate as well from the karaoke stage as one might hope.
I spent Christmas and New Years in Turkey, walking through the streets at dusk hearing the most beautiful and calming prayers from the surrounding mosques in Sultanamet, eating canned beans from the grocery store like a cheap shit beggar, hiking though valley lined with abandoned cave houses, yelling obscenities at my car rental agent, and kicking molesters in the ass while defending my own from their loose and searching hands. My sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy, first in the family in 3 generations on the maternal side; bitch power runs strong in our family. Generally, I am a happy person, and am starting to share Gwynne Dyer`s cautious and cynical yet somehow optimistic view of the world.
None of this would have prompted me to write normally. But, damn, when something completely banal irks my ire, the flood gates open and ranting rapids come careening down the river bed. The last time I did it was to complain to the CBC about broadcasting Wheel of Fortune, which they have apparently been doing to years with my noticing, and now it is to set the record straight about that god-awful film Hugo and what the shit is with all it`s Oscar nominations.
For those of you who were thinking, òh Martin Scorcese directing a non-R rated film and it`s up for many Oscars, this must mean something, I am here to attempt to dispel that such a notion leads to a special happy place. This movie is a condescending piece of tripe, bleached and served up with fancy sauces as if the fact that it`s really full of shit shouldn`t have any affect on the taste.
Rotten Tomatoes gives rates this movie at a whopping 94%, offering another, at least benign, example of demonstrating that you can fool most of the people most of the time. If you haven`t seen it, here is their synopsis:
`This holiday season the legendary storyteller invites you to join him on a thrilling journey to a magical world with his first-ever 3-D film, based on Brian Selznick's award-winning, imaginative New York Times best-seller, "The Invention of Hugo Cabret." Hugo is the astonishing adventure of a wily and resourceful boy whose quest to unlock a secret left to him by his father will transform Hugo and all those around him, and reveal a safe and loving place he can call home`.
Yep, that about covers it.
Oh wait, no. It sure as shit doesn`t!
First, this movie makes the same irritating casting decision that all American films set in any European country other than England make: they cast every French character as a Brit, cause oh well close enough, and we like their accents more. While it was pure gold when they did it with Jean Luc Picard, it has become so common place that we might as well pretend that the British Empire never did fall, and rules with an iron fist over Hollywood`s imaginary take on Europe. It seems like the only way the French ever get to have their droll, or any other aspect of their language, preserved intact is produce themselves, so you can imagine why Quebec is so strict with it`s Francophone laws. I don`t blame them in the least.
And the characters...
Hugo is precocious orphan, with the obligatory drunken uncle who abandons him to live in the clocks of Paris central station after his father dies in museum fire, after his mother died ostensibly from being French in the 19th century. Despite all his tragedy, he is moral and un-cruel, and steals only food for sustenance. Children who lose both their parents and are constantly hunted and abused by adults are more likely to end up like the child soldiers of the Interahamwe than genius clock makers, but whatever. Let`s just say he`s well adjusted to his semi-tragic fate. He is joined shortly by Isabelle, the god daughter of Ben Kingsley`s character, who has the most ridiculously affect Cockney accent ever contrived, and delights in saying quintessentially British things like `is i`tah seecret? Oh, I luv seecrets` with all the sincerity of a rogue trader before a senate sub-committee.
Ben Kingsley`s talent for largely wicked roles is wasted here. He is a bitter old toy maker, whom it turns out is actually George Meleis, famed Sci-Fi director who amde spectaular films until the Great War came around and ruined his life by killing everyone who used to watch them. The entire length of film you are waiting for something deeper to reveal the true source of his malaise and grief, especially after his wife expels Hugo and his prepubescent girlfriend with line `he is too fragile. Oh, children should not know such sorrow`,cause if someone ain`t dead or raped, or raped then killed, and their entire village burned to the ground, you are expected to get the fuck over whatever else it is at some point, and move on with your pointless life. But no, not Monsieur Meleise. While still landing employment that kept him in house and seemingly well fed and clothed, he simply became unpopular and it was too much for him to bear. I imagine the sisters of Delta Kappa Pita would well relate.
In the end, Hugo helps Meleise rediscover his love of life and is adopted by him, to live happily ever after in an budding sexual relationship with his new sister in law, we assume.
Now, as scathing as that review just was, I must admit that I wouldn`t hate this movie half as much, in fact I wouldn`t comment on it at all, if it weren`t up for 11 Oscar nominations, including Best Picture.
See, there are worse movies. Hugo is quite benign, and it is beautifully filmed. However, what makes it somewhat less benign, and which isn`t it`s fault really but I have to criticize the film in order to segway into this argument, is that it symbolizes Hollywood`s new position on political affairs. This is my opinion as an educated layperson, not as an expert on the subject, so rebuttle is welcome, but it seems like the Oscars traditionally rewarded edgier fare. Films like Crash, Munich, Do the Right Thing: the Oscars were supposed to highlight movies that were politically and socially relevant, and were thought provoking in some respect to that end. That doesn`t mean that they had to end badly or be overly pessimistic, but they did tend to be; however, Crash does end with some significant reconciliation of the characters and the greater issues they embodied.
Hugo does not have any of these qualities. The characters and script writing are completely unoriginal and highly stereotyped, and say nothing, except that we should believe in wonder and imagination. While this message is by no means unwelcome, I don`t think it really qualifies as thought provoking either. The obsequious nomination of this film for some many categories made me feel like the Hollywood elite, with the exception of Matt Damon, can no longer be bothered to comment on anything of importance, and that the official Hollywood line is to `keep calm and carry on`and pretending that all is well is uber riche La-La Land.
But, even if that is the case, maybe it doesn`t matter that much. Are the Oscars really that representative of American society or even of Hollywood? I just can`t say `yes`.
They did, however, provide excellent fodder for my blog. Thank you. Take a bow.
1 comment:
Now that I've seen this movie, I think this review is fucking hilarious and point-on.
Post a Comment