Hugo Cabret Character Analysis

“Ghosts. . .” the old man muttered to himself. “I knew they would find me here eventually.”

And so Hugo began working all day in the dark on clocks. He had often imagined that his own head was filled with cogs and gears like a machine, and he felt a connection with whatever machinery he touched. He loved learning how the clocks in the station worked, and there as a kind of satisfaction in knowing how to climb through the walls and secretly repair the clocks without anyone seeing him.

Dogs barked in the distance, and the rumblings of the street cleaners pierced the quiet of the night. Where was Hugo supposed to go? What was he supposed to do? He had no one. Even the automaton was dead.

Hugo touched the ashes and then let them fall to the floor with the handkerchief. He staggered backwards. All of his plans, all of his dreams, disappeared in that scattered pile of ash.

Suddenly, Hugo felt stupid for thinking he could fix it and especially for imagining there would be a letter from his father waiting for him.

All his work had been for nothing.

Hugo felt broken himself.

“Stop it, Georges! Stop!” yelled his wife. “This is your work!”

“HA!” he cried. “How could this be mine? I am not an artist! I am nothing! I’m a penniless merchant, a prisoner! A shell! A windup toy!”

He related the whole story, from his father’s discovery of the automaton up in the attic of the museum, to the fire, to the arrival and disappearance of his uncle. He told her about discovering the toys in her godfather’s booth and how he used them to fix the automaton. He told her everything.

When Hugo finished, Isabelle was quiet for a few moments, then she said, “Thank you.”

“Maybe it’s the same with people,” Hugo continued. “If you lose your purpose . . . it’s like you’re broken.

“Like Papa Georges?”

“Maybe . . . maybe we can fix him.”

“Before you go home, come with me,” Hugo said, and he helped Isabelle through the nearest air vent into the walls. Between Hugo’s injured hand and Isabelle’s sprained foot, it was extremely difficult for them to get up the staircases and the ladder, but they helped each other and at least they came to the glass clocks that overlooked the city.

“I like to imagine that the world is one big machine. You know, machines never have any extra parts. They have the exact number and type of parts they need. So I figure if the entire world is a big machine, I have to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason, too.”

“Remember the drunken old Timekeeper of the station?” continued Madame Emile. “It was him! Dead for years!”

When Hugo opened his eyes, all he could see where stars. Stars and moons and what looked like a rocket ship. It was the cape from A Trip to the Moon, and Georges Méliès was wearing it.

Once upon a time, I was a boy named Hugo Cabret, and I desperately believed that a broken automaton would save my life. Now, that my cocoon has fallen away and I have emerged as a magician named Professor Alcofrisbas, I can look back and see that I was right.

But now I have built a new automaton [. . .]. When you wind it up, it can do something I’m sure no other automaton in the world can do. It can tell you the incredible story of Georges Méliès, his wife, their goddaughter, and a beloved clock maker whose son grew up to be a magician.

“Ghosts. . .” the old man muttered to himself. “I knew they would find me here eventually.”

And so Hugo began working all day in the dark on clocks. He had often imagined that his own head was filled with cogs and gears like a machine, and he felt a connection with whatever machinery he touched. He loved learning how the clocks in the station worked, and there as a kind of satisfaction in knowing how to climb through the walls and secretly repair the clocks without anyone seeing him.

Dogs barked in the distance, and the rumblings of the street cleaners pierced the quiet of the night. Where was Hugo supposed to go? What was he supposed to do? He had no one. Even the automaton was dead.

Hugo touched the ashes and then let them fall to the floor with the handkerchief. He staggered backwards. All of his plans, all of his dreams, disappeared in that scattered pile of ash.

Suddenly, Hugo felt stupid for thinking he could fix it and especially for imagining there would be a letter from his father waiting for him.

All his work had been for nothing.

Hugo felt broken himself.

“Stop it, Georges! Stop!” yelled his wife. “This is your work!”

“HA!” he cried. “How could this be mine? I am not an artist! I am nothing! I’m a penniless merchant, a prisoner! A shell! A windup toy!”

He related the whole story, from his father’s discovery of the automaton up in the attic of the museum, to the fire, to the arrival and disappearance of his uncle. He told her about discovering the toys in her godfather’s booth and how he used them to fix the automaton. He told her everything.

When Hugo finished, Isabelle was quiet for a few moments, then she said, “Thank you.”

“Maybe it’s the same with people,” Hugo continued. “If you lose your purpose . . . it’s like you’re broken.

“Like Papa Georges?”

“Maybe . . . maybe we can fix him.”

“Before you go home, come with me,” Hugo said, and he helped Isabelle through the nearest air vent into the walls. Between Hugo’s injured hand and Isabelle’s sprained foot, it was extremely difficult for them to get up the staircases and the ladder, but they helped each other and at least they came to the glass clocks that overlooked the city.

“I like to imagine that the world is one big machine. You know, machines never have any extra parts. They have the exact number and type of parts they need. So I figure if the entire world is a big machine, I have to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason, too.”

“Remember the drunken old Timekeeper of the station?” continued Madame Emile. “It was him! Dead for years!”

When Hugo opened his eyes, all he could see where stars. Stars and moons and what looked like a rocket ship. It was the cape from A Trip to the Moon, and Georges Méliès was wearing it.

Once upon a time, I was a boy named Hugo Cabret, and I desperately believed that a broken automaton would save my life. Now, that my cocoon has fallen away and I have emerged as a magician named Professor Alcofrisbas, I can look back and see that I was right.

But now I have built a new automaton [. . .]. When you wind it up, it can do something I’m sure no other automaton in the world can do. It can tell you the incredible story of Georges Méliès, his wife, their goddaughter, and a beloved clock maker whose son grew up to be a magician.