127 Hours

Danny Boyle’s new film doesn’t need much introduction. After the supernova success of Slumdog Millionaire, culminating in the Best Director and Best Picture Oscars, the director is very much hot property. Add respected rising star James Franco, a host of great reviews and smattering of Golden Globe nominations to the mix and you start to see why it has been such a talking point. I can, however, safely report that all the talk is justified. As is the praise.

The film does, of course, tell the story of American thrill-seeker Aron Rolston, who, after a freak accident in 2003, got his arm trapped under a boulder in the desert where, after almost five days, he was forced to cut his own arm off with a blunt knife. One has to ask himself how a story that everyone has heard, with an ending that everyone knows, which essentially takes place in a giant crack can 1) be entertaining, or 2) have any dramatic tension. But somehow, miracle worker that he is, Boyle manages it. The film is both engaging, gripping, fun and, above all, incredibly well-made.

It starts in a caffeine-induced frenzy, frantic action appearing in split-screen, accompanied by the infectious, thumping 'Never Hear Surf Music Again', by Free Blood. The action does not let up from there as we see Aron preparing for his trip, not telling anyone where he is going and forgetting his pen-knife. We then see him drive to the wilderness, leave his car and then cycle (intermittently punctuated by jumps and wheelies – natch) the 17-odd miles to the fateful Blue John Canyon. There he meets two young, female hikers, proceeds to show them a secret drop into a hidden pool, before leaving them as quickly as he has met them. There is the faintest hint of attraction between Aron and the two girls but, for the most part, he is in his own self-absorbed bubble. And then comes the accident.

It is here that Franco comes into his own, as we spend at least 90% of the rest of the movie in his capable company. Where others might o played Aron as a self-satisfied bore, Franco finds a novel humanity and empathy. Claustrophobically  and inventively (not to mention brilliantly) shot by cinematographers Anthony Dod Mantle and Enrique Chediak, the closeness never once gets tiring. The action is interlaced with various fantasies, memories and remeniscences of Aron’s that bring his desperate, dehydrated plight into clear focus. Family, friends and a vague failed romance bring a gentle poignancy to the events.

When the time comes for the ‘hero’ to amputate his own arm I was engrossed. Then I was grossed out, as the bone-cracking, tendon-snapping, flesh-carving spectacle brutally played out before my eyes. If there was any message to be had, it seemed to revolve around Ralston not forgetting his nearest-and-dearest and needing this personal tragedy to paradoxically bring him closer to them and make him a better person. But all that is an irrelevance – go and see it; I can’t think of many better or more fun ways to spend ninety minutes.