A Jock On A Rock With A Clock - Measuring a Life in 127 Hours

The real life character - Aron Ralston - James Franco portrays in Danny Boyle's 127 Hours

is the kind of man that alpha male types are drawn to. Admired and revered, he's the guy (a dude or bro) a guy (boss or bra) wants to hook up with in a beer garden during Octoberfest. In a non-sexual way of course. An easy smile, a way with the ladies and a complete lack of interest in what others think, he's the guy who does things on his own, in his own way and time without fanfare or a ticker tape parade to accompany his every achievement.

Some folks want their various deeds acknowledged, validated, lauded, hence reality television, facebook and blogging (insert wink here).  Not Ralston, he's the loner type, built for high risk adventure. And that's what he finds in Utah's deceptively serene Blue John Canyon while on a solo extreme canyoning getaway (sans cell phone no less). But it's what he'll ultimately lose that the audience is anticipating and that gives the film, with its forgone conclusion, its dramatic tension.

I don't think I'm giving anything away here if I mention that Aron Ralston is the man who in 2003, when faced with his own impending death, amputated the lower half of his arm with a dull pocket knife when said arm become trapped beneath an unmovable boulder in an isolated canyon chasm.

Is it entertainment?

Yes.

Maybe too much so.

Stylistically related to Slumdog Millionaire, with split screen action, super-saturated colors, and an eccletic pulsing (one might say pounding or grating) soundtrack, 127 Hours speeds speeds speeds along in warp overdrive and then abruptly comes to a halt. And that is when the film actually begins. But slowly and surely, the filmmaker's desire to entertain rather than allow the moviegoer to be entertained takes hold once again.

I'm a great fan of director Danny Boyle. From A Shallow Grave to 28 Days Later to Sunshine he's not a repeater, he switches between genres with ease. He's ready for the challenge here as well, but seems a bit more concerned with ADHD addled viewers than settling down and trusting that the material, the story and the character is enough. This is compelling stuff, but this constant intrusive amphetamine drip that Boyle infuses becomes a distraction rather than an enhancement.

I find myself imagining what it might be like if the arm rest of my theater seat was equipped with a viewer control like that that a hospital patient uses to self-manage pain. I  click the button on the arm rest when I choose to be stimulated, rather than the director forcing an overdose.

And still the film works and demands attention despite rather than because of these unnecessary flourishes.(Much like the one used above. Does it make you want to read this review any more?)

Franco's Ralston is never anything less (or more) than human. There is a facileness to the character, an unperturbed nature, that is unsettling. Notwithstanding a few minor meltdowns, for the most part, Ralston as channeled by Franco seems to have his emotional shit firmly packed away. There are controlled melencholy video diary monologues to his parents and musically inclined sister, and dehydration induced hallucinations, even a premonition. But where's the dark night of the soul?  This guy keeps his wits about him. It's in his very nature. At one point he repeats a mantra, "do not lose it"... and you know what,  he never does.  He is constantly reevaluating his situation and adjusting. It's not terribly theatrical, but it  feels authentic. Franco is a naturalistic actor and this role is ideally suited to his strengths: charm wit and compassion.

For a single character to hold an audience in thrall for an extended period of time in a film can be a perilous task.  It's a dream for an actor and a potential nightmare for most directors.  Robert Zemekis did it successfully with everyman Tom Hanks in Castaway, but to be comparable, Tom would have had to spend seventy percent of the film in a dinghy on a sandbar. Franco holds our interest within this claustrophobic setting with ease. It's a heroic performance in the non-heroic manner in which Franco embodies Ralston.  It is not my identification with the character that holds me, but rather my opposite nature. Trapped in that same situation, I'd put Pacino to shame with my wailing screaming and deal making with god. Hammy till the very end, I would chew my arm away along with the scenery. That Franco goes against histrionics is a credit to his good instincts as well as Boyles'. That Boyle feels the need to amp things up with fast edits, time lapse and carbonated urine bubbles in plastic bags ultimately does the film a disservice, but James Franco's grounded performance transcends the needling aural and visual frustrations and leaves a lasting impression. Has an Oscar host ever been awarded one in the same evening?