There are 127 different ways to frame a conversation about 127 Hours, and that’s a hallmark of a good film.
There’s the obvious: holy crud, what the heck would I do if I was hopelessly wedged in the bottom of a canyon?
There’s the technical: I’m floored by director Danny Boyle’s economic use of flashback and psychological projection to visually open up what should be a dull-as-a-rock film.
Then there’s the honest: man, that James Franco sure is dreamy.
127 Hours is the type of film I love most, the kind you simply have to talk about with people once you’ve seen it. I swear to you I dreamt I was a trapped climber the night I saw it (odd, because Franco’s trapped hiker Aron Ralston spends some time screentime dreaming he is somewhere else) and the movie was all I could think about the next day.
Part of this, I’m sure, is because it is a true story, but Danny Boyle, truly a master filmmaker by now, has crafted a experiential gem of a movie, exploiting flash and filigree in only clever and crafty ways. Storywise, there are great similiarities between 127 Hours and Gus Van Sant’s Gerry - tonally, they could not be more different. Both, I feel, are brilliant. (Maybe I just like watching hikers get lost.)
The ending of 127 Hours, however, may get a tad overblown. There is the implication that it is only a man like Ralston – who rubs the smooth surface of ancient canyon walls with an impish grin or tracks the flight patterns of crows – knows how to live, how to truly live. Not only do I find that obnoxious, I feel it is a little too congratulatory to a guy who’d still have his arm if he wasn’t too much of a Mountain Dew douche to take precautions.
