127 Hours Review

Oh no. Oh no. No no no no no. Please no. HOLY MOSES, NO!

If you cannot guess which scene in 127 Hours this transcription of my train of thought refers to and you don’t want the film spoiling, I suggest you stop reading after this paragraph. Suffice to say, Danny Boyle’s new film is a stunning, visceral and cathartic tour de force which you should see at your nearest opportunity. Got that? Okay.

For those who either aren’t bothered about the film’s major plot point being spoiled or are already aware of the circumstances of this actually rather well-known true story, read on. 127 Hours sees Boyle directing James Franco as Aron Ralston, a reckless mountaineer who finds himself in something of a pickle when, after a freak rockslide, his right becomes arm pinned between a narrow canyon wall and a rather large boulder. In utter isolation and with dwindling water supplies, Ralston (whose account of the tale is told in the predictably titled book, Between a Rock and a Hard Place) is forced to consider extreme measures in order to survive. His inventory consists of little more than a video camera, some climbing rope and, crucially, a blunt pocket knife. You do the math…

127 Hours takes a familiar trope of thriller cinema (perhaps most infamously employed at the climax of the first Mad Max film) and stretches it to a feature length study of the cost of living, human connection and survival. Instead of mere minutes in which to make his decision, Ralston is tormented for five days in situ before he finally takes up his blade and grits his teeth. It is a tribute to Franco’s considerable charisma that we sympathise with Ralston as much as we do; like The Social Network before it, 127 Hours takes an annoying, unlikable, real-life person and transforms them into a compelling cinematic character.

Boyle’s direction is, as always, excellent. Shrugging off the accusations of mawkishness that the few detractors of Slumdog Millionaire levelled at that film, Boyle proves once more to be one of the most exciting prospects in British filmmaking. The opening sequences are a visual fiesta of kinetic energy, which contrasts nicely with Ralston’s immobility for the rest of the film. Indeed, where many directors would run out of ideas after having the sole lead character confined to one place for so long, Boyle always has another visual trick up his sleeve.

Boyle’s implementation of music is second to none, with Indian über-producer AR Rahman returning to provide another original score for his second consecutive Boyle film and choice cuts of contemporary music and song (including a rather glorious use of Godlike Icelandic post-rockers Sigur Rós’s wonderful ‘Festival’ at the film’s crescendo). An obvious influence is the exceptional mountaineering disaster documentary, Touching the Void, in which the injured party in that film is tormented by Boney M’s ‘Brown Girl in the Ring’; in 127 Hours, Ralston is similarly haunted by the theme from Scooby Doo.

Of course, it would be amiss not to mention the arm-cutting scene. It is unwatchable in all the right ways; I found myself unable to look at the screen for several seconds, but was unable to block out the horrific use of sound as tendons snap and blood oozes. My own blood literally left my hands and I was left with an awful sensation of pins and needles for several minutes (though I love it when films provoke actually physical reactions). The scene has already caused fainting and vomiting at previous screenings and viewers of a nervous disposition are advised to cover both ears and eyes. However, this scene is followed by a stirring sequence of utter catharsis and joie de vivre and I left the screening room feeling totally uplifted and as if I too had shared Ralston’s torture (again, in the best possible way), survived and now had a new, exciting outlook on life. Boyle’s sense of pacing, adventure, emotion and creativity is unparalleled and 127 Hours is easily one of the best films of the year.