Last March, on the way back from Deauville to home, I took a train to Paris. Montparnasse station didn't leave me with any deep impression. The platform, dome, and electronic display board that constantly changed the train numbers and times looked no different from other central stations in Europe. Without stopping, we hurriedly parted ways, not realizing that we had missed out on a piece of cinematic legend. It was precisely at this station (of course, it was a set), where Martin Scorsese used a child's journey of adventure to perform a magical movie trick for the audience.
*"Hugo"* is a 3D children's film adapted from Brian Selznick's novel *The Invention of Hugo Cabret*. However, it expresses a standard cinephile sentiment. Perhaps because besides the director and main creative staff, even the original author of the novel himself has a notable "film identity" — his cousin David O. Selznick was the producer of *Gone with the Wind*. And Old Martin, while trying to maintain the original content as much as possible, also incorporated his unique film style, allowing John Logan, who collaborated with him on *The Aviator* in 2004, to shape an image of an orphan who is lonely, melancholic but incredibly sharp. What is known as Martin's style manifests when you first see little Hugo; he hides behind the large clock in the train station, peering through the hollowed-out "4," observing the "comedies of life" played out within the station: flower vendors, women walking their dogs, her suitor, the disabled station security guard, and his Doberman that can distinguish vagrants... They all resemble characters from Balzac's pen. These are both Hugo's perspective and the director's and audience's point of view. In this initial scene, many stories rotate like gears, waiting to be told by the film... Then we see the young protagonist navigate through the complex mechanical structure inside the station, arriving at the back of another clock where he can spy on the toy store and its owner. That is a beautiful long shot reminiscent of Busby Berkeley and Henry Hill entering the bar in *Goodfellas*. Including later scenes where the camera follows Hugo being chased by the security guard and his Doberman through the station's grand hall, stairs, steep slopes, crowds, and even under the vendor's crotch. These are classic chase scenes in children's films, where laughter reveals a Paris filled with modernity (gears, clocks, trains, important trends of modernity). Old Martin busily unfolds the world that Hugo sees through the high windows of the train station, and this technique was similarly used in his film *Kundun*, where the young Kundun looks at the city separated from him, evoking the same melancholy loneliness.
This is originally a story shared by a child discovering something, but gradually, the audience soon finds themselves transforming from discoverers into participants alongside Hugo. Little Hugo, who manages all the "time" in the train station, tries to repair a robot his deceased father brought back from the museum because he believes his father left a message in this robot. He steals some components from the toy store owner, but most importantly, he still needs a key that can fit into the heart-shaped lockhole. And the owner of this key is Isabelle, the goddaughter of the toy store owner. Naturally, the two adorable children open a magical door, and behind it, the audience surprisingly discovers that the bad-tempered toy store owner, the old man with a white beard and dark wary eyes, is none other than Georges Méliès. This name may mean nothing to young Hugo or contemporary audiences, but to cinephiles, if you don't know its significance, you shouldn't even call yourself a cinephile.
As a pioneer of cinema, on December 28, 1895, Méliès watched the first public screening of a film in Paris and became entranced. While the Lumière brothers focused on non-narrative documentary films (which they called actualités), Méliès miraculously created a science fiction film *A Trip to the Moon* using techniques such as moving camera, double exposure, masking, and multiple exposures. Even now, looking back, this science fiction film less than 12 minutes long is still impressive. The protagonist flies a rocket into the "eye of the moon," embarks on an adventure battling moon people, and eventually returns to Earth. Unfortunately, the outbreak of World War I left him destitute, forcing the closure of the film studio he founded. The 500 films he produced throughout his life were sold to a chemical company, where the film reels were dissolved to make high heel soles. Using the money from selling his films, Méliès opened a toy store in the Montparnasse train station, thus stepping off the stage of film history and refusing to reminisce about the past. Therefore, it's not hard to understand Méliès' line in the movie: "My life has taught me happy endings only happen in the movies."
But the story is not over yet. The dream of cinema will never be complete, even after a hundred years. And those great old dreams, whenever they reappear before the audience in any era, can still stir emotions.
In fact, I think such a children's film didn't need to be made into a costly 3D production ($170 million), but Old Martin was willing to take such a risk to pay tribute to the giant. He tried to use stereoscopic imagery to let the audience return to Méliès' "dream-making" reality, personally experiencing the magic of the world's first film studio and the process of shooting *A Trip to the Moon*. In my memory, Martin Scorsese seems to have never made a cameo appearance in his own films, but this time he made a guest appearance as a photographer. Hollywood has recently been swept by a wave of nostalgia, with *The Artist*, *My Week with Marilyn*, and *Hugo* all nominated for the Oscars. Perhaps because they are in an era of great development in 3D technology, the innovators empathize with each other, always resonating with the trailblazers of history, just like that often-cited example *Singin' in the Rain*.