Review: 127 Hours

No, I didn't review the new Harry Potter movie -- by choice, thank you very much. I figure it will get plenty of coverage by more qualified people who have actually read the books and seen the previous films. I mean really, is anyone going to go see it if  they haven't?

Instead, I opted for the man who needs no first name (at least in my book), Franco in "127 Hours." Though my (edited for space) review is in the print edition of the Union-Tribune today (11/19), it has yet to be posted online (this happens every week, much to my disappointment). So while I wait for them to put it up, I thought I'd share it here, complete with the final paragraph, which urges you to get over the fainting stories and just go see the damn thing. Here you go...

"127 Hours"
Rated: R
Running Time: 1 hour, 33 minutes
3 ½ stars

When outdoor adventurer Aron Ralston emerged from a Utah canyon with one arm and an inspiring --though gruesome--story of survival, many of us took a moment to consider how we would’ve responded in the same situation.  Could I cut off my own arm if it meant saving my life? Just how strong is my will to live?

Here’s what most of us didn’t think: Wow, that would make a terrific movie.

And that’s why most of us aren’t Danny Boyle, the British filmmaker known for taking chances and making movies that at first might seem unpalatable: the highs and lows of the junkie lifestyle (“Trainspotting”), a country overtaken by infected “zombies” (“28 Days Later”), and the injustice of India’s slums in the Oscar-winning crowd pleaser, “Slumdog Millionaire.”  With his latest release, "127 Hours," Boyle takes us deep inside a remote sliver of canyon, where Ralston (James Franco) is trapped, his forearm pinned beneath a massive boulder—and no one coming to the rescue.

Before the fall that made him famous, Ralston is introduced in a mad rush to escape. What exactly is he escaping? Normal life. The daily commute. The rate race. All shown to us in split screen as Ralston tears through his apartment, ignoring phone calls from his family and hastily packing for his weekly solo adventure into the wild.

But once he gets there, he’s hardly the picture of serenity. In fact, he’s whipped into his own frenzy of stubborn individuality, risk-taking and, as he demonstrates when he crosses paths with a pair of female hikers (Kate Mara, Amber Tamblyn), exhilarating cockiness – all of which slams to a halt with one unfortunately placed rock.

Ralston may be pinned in one spot, but Boyle’s camera is anything but, taking us to every place a frantic mind could wander while under such strain: sloshing inside a water bottle as its contents recede, through the lens of the camera Ralston uses to record his desperate thoughts, inside abstract patches of Ralston’s memory-- even under the skin of the doomed arm as his blunt knife cuts its way through.

But Franco is the vehicle that makes "127 Hours" more than just an exercise in claustrophobic endurance. As he’s proven with his oddly ambitious forays into everything from advanced Ivy League degrees to an experimental stint on a soap opera, Franco shows an unbridled willingness to play along and break new ground. And the fact that he
makes this Oscar-worthy performance look so easy, has you wondering what this modern Renaissance man can’t do.

And now the inevitable topic -- the self-amputation, which has led to a few reported cases of audience members fainting. Yes, it is a painful scene to watch, thanks to Franco’s courageous performance and Boyle’s superb assemblage of images and sound (I still can’t shake the nails-on-a-chalkboard chord that struck as Ralston sliced through the arm’s primary nerve).

But the scene is more than just a headline-grabbing gimmick. By the time Ralston arrives at this decision, he’s faced the personal failures that led him to this isolated place. They aren’t grand mistakes, just the small slights we all are guilty of, yet rarely get the chance to meditate upon—let alone rectify. 


But Ralston does get the chance, and by the time we get to the cutting, it feels less like a horrific choice than one more stubborn obstacle to overcome before he can begin life anew. If it were possible, I would’ve ripped the appendage off for him myself.

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Irving Thalberg and Me

I was reading about Dino DeLaurentis' funeral in the Hollywood Reporter and remembered why I first fell in love with movies. The 91-year-old Italian film producer had worked with just about every big name in film from the 1940s until just a few years ago: Federico Fellini, Arnold Schwarzenegger, David Lynch, Jeff Berg, Steven Spielberg, Baz Luhrman -- most in attendance at his LA funeral. When was the last time you got a crowd like that into one room?

To be honest, it wasn't the movies themselves that first grabbed my imagination. It was their time capsule nature that I loved. Every weekend, while watching Tom Hatten's Family Film Festival on channel 5, I felt like I was getting a glimpse of American history on my television screen.

It started as a fascination with what people "back then" dressed like, how they spoke, what music they listened to. Even a futuristic science fiction movie would show its hand with bell-bottomed spacesuits or clunky references to contemporary social issues like race relations or women's rights.

Don't get me wrong, I often loved the movies too. But the films that made it onto syndicated afternoon television weren't exactly all "Casablanca" - and I knew it. So I mined what I could out of Mr. Hatten's picks (including a soft spot for Doris Day/Rock Hudson/Tony Randall comedies), and the more context he gave --about the cast, the box office performance, whatever-- the more I enjoyed watching it.

When it came to current releases, I tended to prefer story and character over spectacle (still do) and, with big budget blockbusters in full effect during my formative moviegoing years, I was left with slim pickings. I gravitated towards quirky comedies like "Down and Out in Beverly Hills," "Raising Arizona"and "Ruthless People" -- all on my favorites list as kid. I also remember convincing my best friend to sneak into "About Last Night," an R-rated movie about a topic I wouldn't understand for another 15 years, instead of going to see "Back to the Future" because it promised to be just a "stupid science fiction movie for boys." (Don't worry, my judgement has improved since then. I think.)

I may have been uninformed of the current movie zeitgeist, but I could tell you all about the studio chiefs during Hollywood's Golden Era. Or at least I hoped to someday, if anyone ever cared to ask. The point is, I loved the old studio system -- warts and all.

In fact, the more I learned about how oppressive the system was, the more I wanted to know. The "bad" side, the ugly side of the business -- in the context of history anyway--is about as juicy as you can get, full of larger-than-life characters that feel like they could only exist in....well, the movies. By the  time he was laid to rest, Dino DeLaurentis had become more than just a movie producer, he was a force of personality. (The news today about the horrific murder of longtime Hollywood publicist Ronni Chasen is already bringing forth similar stories.)

By my sophomore year in college, my school announced it would begin offering a film studies major. While my well-meaning mother had convinced to me to choose a liberal arts school over a more technical filmmaking program, it still only took me about five seconds to change my major.  To keep with their classically-oriented core curriculum, the administration insisted that the major remain strictly film theory and criticism -  no actual "moviemaking."

We were, however, more  than welcome to volunteer as a PA for any of the graduate student films being shot, which I did --once-- with a friend/fellow major . While she fell in love with the heavy lifting, working for free, and long periods of waiting around followed by sudden rushes of panic, I was uninspired to say the least. I guess you could say I cared more about the product than the process. This major was perfect for me. (I'm happy to say my friend is now a successful line producer for indie films.)
 
So in between work study jobs and film-related internships (more posts to come about those), I stayed hunkered down in the school's shabby screening room, soaking up mind bending lectures on film theory from James Schamus, decade-by-decade surveys of American film with Andrew Sarris (a living piece of film history himself), feminist film studies with Molly Haskell. I sincerely enjoyed researching and writing a paper about producer Arthur Freed's contributions to the Hollywood musical.  I grew slightly obsessed with the myth of Irving Thalberg and, through that, discovered the industry's underdog Jewish-American roots  (I still treasure my copy of Neal Gabler's "An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood").

I adored the idea that "the business" was an entirely American invention. And that the image we manufacture of ourselves on film is our chief export to the rest of the world (whether we like it or not).  I first grasped this during a middle school trip to Europe when, after talking to locals and flipping through magazines, I was surprised to learn they assumed we all owned guns and listened to rap music -- an image that could only have come from the movies and television shows we produced ourselves. (I suppose these days they think we're all right wing extremists, still with guns of course.)

While I try to give every film my undivided critical attention at the time I review it, what I enjoy more than anything is taking a step back to see where it fits in our own history and self image. That takes some perspective and, having been a working critic for two years (plus 15 years working in and around the media/entertainment industry), I am happy to say I'm gaining some of it.  Not that any of this will help improve my Oscar picks this year.  But I'll still give it a shot.

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