127 Hours “Nearly Flawless,” Says Scott

127 Hours opened yesterday. The New York Times’ AO Scott writes eloquently about James Franco and the team Boyle assembled to deliver us this, one of the most memorable experiences of the year:

How do you make a startling, true anecdote into a dramatically satisfying feature film? How, more precisely, do you turn an experience of confinement and tedium — take a moment to consider the weight of that title — into a kinetic, suspenseful visual spectacle. How do you turn an immobilized protagonist into the hero of a motion picture, emphasis on motion?

The most obvious answer is that you cast James Franco, an actor whose loose physicality and free-ranging intelligence make him good company for a lonely spell in wilderness. (Another answer is to employ two nimble and gifted cinematographers, Enrique Chediak and Anthony Dod Mantle, and set them loose in some of the most beautiful places on earth.)

At times Mr. Franco resembles a Looney Tunes character drawn by Chuck Jones. On his mountain bike and then on foot, Aron zooms across the desert landscape like the Roadrunner, only to be transformed into Wile E. Coyote, tripped up by the laws of physics and dependent on Acme-style gadgets and gizmos.

A guileless, naturally funny fellow, he narrates his plight into a small video camera, imagining himself at one point as both host and guest on a peppy daytime interview show, complete with audience response. Reflecting on the mistakes that brought him to this unhappy pass — in particular, neglecting to tell anyone where he was going — he finds there is only one word to sum it all up: “Oops.”

But “127 Hours,” a chronicle of accident and determination, is nearly flawless. Mr. Franco’s goofball energy connects the viewer to the character almost instantly, and Mr. Boyle’s speedy, jumpy style sends us out into the desert on a wave of caffeine and rock ’n’ roll. Aron is hardly one for rapt Wordsworthian contemplation of nature; his romanticism, though deep, is sensual and hedonistic rather than quietly reverent.

Scott’s closing paragraph:

There are scenes in “127 Hours” that are hard to bear — the cracking of a bone, the severing of a nerve, the desperate consumption of a water bag filled with urine — but what these moments communicate is more than worth a jolt of discomfort or a spasm of revulsion. To say that this movie gets under your skin is only barely a figure of speech. It pins you down, shakes you up and leaves you glad to be alive.

And that, my friends, is how it’s done. Read his full review at the NY Times. Just let me say, though, that to me — a good film review doesn’t just give an opinion. Opinions, as we know, are like assholes, everybody has one. To interpret an artist’s intention, to examine their importance in the context of film history, and to recognize great filmmaking when it is presented are all the things that, to me, matter with film criticism. It doesn’t hurt that I happen to agree with him.