The Invention of Hugo Cabaret
Brian Selznik
Living alone in the walls of the Paris train station, Hugo's sole goal is to finish a job begun by his father: the repair of a mysterious mechanical man, poised to write a note. Things get more complicated, however, when he is caught thieving mechanical toys for their parts and loses a notebook his father made on the mechanical man. Forced to work off the stolen goods, Hugo soon finds that he is not the only one with a secret in his life and, somehow, this cranky old toymaker might just know or be the answer he needs.
This book came out some time ago--I've no real idea of when, but I promise you that I picked it up and pondered purchasing it the first time I saw it. As with so many books, I continued to pick it up and flip through it each time I could. It was not, however, until I saw a trailer for the upcoming film release of the book that I bought it. Yes, yes, I followed the crowd, I guess.
As-of-yet unreleased film aside, there are many, many reasons to purchase your own copy of The Invention of Hugo Cabaret in the near future. One goes against something we've learned since we were children: The cover. Adorned in the fabulous swirls of red, gold and orange, the slip cover immediately puts one in mind of a circus or show, of the old school variety with men wearing well-waxed mustachios and women in sequins. But as you lift the book to examine it further, you will notice something quite unusual--the pages are not white, off-white or colored. The pages are black.
Whoa, hold on there, you might think; how does that even work?
I've no idea how to say it better, but my friend, it works beautifully, bringing us round to reason two: Format. Don't venture down the road of anticipating white text on a black page in a sort of film negative reversal thing. Think of it more in context of [as you are supposed to, I would say] a black and white film. The black page is your blank screen. When something is happening, either in pictures or narration, they are inserted over top the black, giving the whole book a high-contrast feel that refuses to allow the eye to wander.
In keeping with the silent film simile, the book does have both pictures and narration. Brilliantly executed, our author and illustrator intertwine the text and images seamlessly. Instead of following the well-beaten route in which the two aspects of an illustrated story simultaneously broadcast the same thing, The Invention of Hugo Cabaret is alternately a written novel and a wordless picture book. Scenes of dialogue and exposition appear in large white rectangles framed by the black page while action and description are, quite literally, pictured.
Working as a well-choreographed team, both pieces pull together the brilliantly endearing and complex story of Hugo trying to survive in and figure out the world. The story alone would have been enough for me to by the book, if in an eventuality more severe than what came to pass. The art, by itself, would have warranted the same thing. Fortunately for my wallet, however, they exist together as one harmonious story. I am more than pleased with this little adventure. If I had an honest complaint, it would relate to the fact that I read through it far too quickly and then a friend borrowed it before I could read it again.
Boo hiss.
Brian Selznik
Living alone in the walls of the Paris train station, Hugo's sole goal is to finish a job begun by his father: the repair of a mysterious mechanical man, poised to write a note. Things get more complicated, however, when he is caught thieving mechanical toys for their parts and loses a notebook his father made on the mechanical man. Forced to work off the stolen goods, Hugo soon finds that he is not the only one with a secret in his life and, somehow, this cranky old toymaker might just know or be the answer he needs.
This book came out some time ago--I've no real idea of when, but I promise you that I picked it up and pondered purchasing it the first time I saw it. As with so many books, I continued to pick it up and flip through it each time I could. It was not, however, until I saw a trailer for the upcoming film release of the book that I bought it. Yes, yes, I followed the crowd, I guess.
As-of-yet unreleased film aside, there are many, many reasons to purchase your own copy of The Invention of Hugo Cabaret in the near future. One goes against something we've learned since we were children: The cover. Adorned in the fabulous swirls of red, gold and orange, the slip cover immediately puts one in mind of a circus or show, of the old school variety with men wearing well-waxed mustachios and women in sequins. But as you lift the book to examine it further, you will notice something quite unusual--the pages are not white, off-white or colored. The pages are black.
Whoa, hold on there, you might think; how does that even work?
I've no idea how to say it better, but my friend, it works beautifully, bringing us round to reason two: Format. Don't venture down the road of anticipating white text on a black page in a sort of film negative reversal thing. Think of it more in context of [as you are supposed to, I would say] a black and white film. The black page is your blank screen. When something is happening, either in pictures or narration, they are inserted over top the black, giving the whole book a high-contrast feel that refuses to allow the eye to wander.
In keeping with the silent film simile, the book does have both pictures and narration. Brilliantly executed, our author and illustrator intertwine the text and images seamlessly. Instead of following the well-beaten route in which the two aspects of an illustrated story simultaneously broadcast the same thing, The Invention of Hugo Cabaret is alternately a written novel and a wordless picture book. Scenes of dialogue and exposition appear in large white rectangles framed by the black page while action and description are, quite literally, pictured.
Working as a well-choreographed team, both pieces pull together the brilliantly endearing and complex story of Hugo trying to survive in and figure out the world. The story alone would have been enough for me to by the book, if in an eventuality more severe than what came to pass. The art, by itself, would have warranted the same thing. Fortunately for my wallet, however, they exist together as one harmonious story. I am more than pleased with this little adventure. If I had an honest complaint, it would relate to the fact that I read through it far too quickly and then a friend borrowed it before I could read it again.
Boo hiss.
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