127 Hours

Like many, I would assume, my introduction to the work of director Danny Boyle was his 1996 international breakthrough, Trainspotting, the masterful Scottish film about heroin addicts.  What was so radiant about the film, aside from Boyle's formidable kinetic visual tricks, was the way we focused on the high itself, in all its grimy exhilaration; making what was a difficult movie tackling a difficult subject matter not only vital cinema, but dare we say it: fun.  Since then the inventive British fabulist has ventured in horror (2003's 28 Days Later), science fiction (2007's Sunshine) and sought Oscar approval (2008's Slumdog Millionaire) for the most part without losing sight of the edgy, nervy styling that made an art house champion.  His latest, 127 Hours, I believe comes closest to the transcendent, truly vital cinema that Trainspotting was.  Again, it focuses on a "high," this one not in the form of a substance, but in a lone ranger's exploration; the rush of an adrenaline junkies search for the unknown.  There's added emotional heft for this survival story, as it's based on a true one, that of Aron Ralston, who out in the Canyonlands Park in Utah in the spring of 2003, got his right hand stuck under a boulder, whose only freedom was the chip away as his arm with a dull knife.  The film was based on the memoir by Ralston, entitled Between a Rock and a Hard Place.

In the film, we meet Ralston (played by James Franco) as he's setting out for exploration, by his lonesome, which is felt was he prefers.  He's been there before, and has all the hiking, mountain climbing gear.  There's pretty shots of him mountain biking on the surface of the challenging terrain, all filmed to the hilt, with maximum dexterity by the gifted Anthony Dod Mantle (the Academy Award winning lenser of Slumdog Millionaire, as well as the austere, brilliantly filmed Dogville.)  Ralston is seen as an expert of the great outdoors, throwing caution to the wind-- he's a good ole boy looking for fun and adventure.  He meets two attractive hikers (Kate Mara and Amber Tamblyn) as poses as their guide, showing them the beautiful, albeit dangerous side, that of which would never be endorsed by guidebooks.  The two girls make googly-eyes and pose invitations to meet Ralston again, but as quick as they meet, he's off in the search of something new; he could almost be a poster child for the ADD-generation.

Off exploring in caves, god-knows how many miles away from civilization, Ralston gets stuck.  A rock has pinned his right arm down, his legs dangling the air, and for the first time in Boyle's film, everything starts to slow down, if only for a minute.  We see the giant blob of blood on the side, and a giant close-up of Franco's face, as he nervously tries to relax and focus-- for the first time it just got real, and the high is coming down.  The rest of the film plays sort of like an art-house\grindhouse version of Cast Away, but it's the nervy and visceral way that Boyle makes the claustrophobia of Ralstom's survivalist story so unique, and like Trainspotting, kinda...fun.  Which sort of feels wrong to say, but there's an exhilaration at work in 127 Hours that feels missing from nearly any movie Hollywood has made this year, and even the midst of one man's struggle, and seeming death, the film has an unbelievable way of making not only the fear palpable, but give it such immense scope.

There's few teasing glimpses of relief for Ralston, the fifteen minutes of sunlight in the morning, the sighting of a raven every morning at 9:30, and his camcorder to provide a diary of his journey, or a last will and testament.  Yet the uncanny naturist does fights the entire time-- making a pulley for comfort, and ineffectual rescue, chipping away at the rock with his dull blade for hours on end; there's a sequence when he drops his knife, and the effort to pick it up with his shoe and a twig that would make MacGyver proud.  But the harsh reality is that no one will hear his screams, and his water supply is almost out, and this where 127 Hours becomes almost quietly profound, in the hallucinations of his family he never see again, to the girl he may have wrongly dumped.  Boyle manages to get away with this because he never goes soft on Ralston-- each flashback and such is brought right back to the boulder he's trapped under.  The film wouldn't work nearly as successfully without the efforts of Franco, whose shape-shifting "meta" career is brought to new heights with a performance that's not just achingly physical, but beautifully poignant.  There's a moment when Franco recalls his past love, or sexual experience, and aches at the thought of possibly never feeling that again...he hesitates at the thought of masturbating one last time, and fights it...it may sound silly, but it's one of the most authentic and utterly humane moments in the film.

Much, it seems at least online, has been surrounded around the graphic nature of the 127 Hours, that of which prompted a few festival patrons to feint.  On this I'll just say that while I wholeheartedly embrace the film, it isn't for the feint of heart-- as exhilarating and validating as I think the film is, it is none the less raw and bloody.  Boyle doesn't shy away from the saving grace towards the end.  I, personally desensitized likely from the crappy gorefests viewed at a young age, handled it, I suppose, as best as one can, but I noticed a lot of fidgeting and uncomfortable viewers in the crowded movie theater with me.  It's nowhere near the gross torture-porn crap like the Hostels or Saws, but it feels more real.  I suppose enter at your own risk, but the risk is worth it, I'd say.  A-