Review: 127 Hours (2010)

Danny Boyle's 127 Hours, the much-publicized new film chronicling the five-plus day entrapment of real-life climber Aron Ralston, is a restless, intensified and semi-grueling display of inventive close-quarters filmmaking, the kind of which Mr. Boyle thrives on. 

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But a film like this shouldn't merely be measured by and judged upon its technical affluence as a genre piece, but rather on its success as a work of considerable emotional impact dealing with not only the inspirational triumph of the human will, but a lonely 27 year-old's refusal to be left unheard.

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Yet where the film thrives (and Mr. Boyle's touch is most evident) is in its numerous pockets of split-screen sensory fulmination - the sandpaper terrain brushing against the fingertips, the gargling of an ever depleting water supply, the sharpness and shock of pain, etc. - rather than in its start-and-stop, time-sifting segments of self-critique and remembrance. (In these moments, Boyle's reality-altering images flirt with both poignancy and cliché.)
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But even with a performance of significant warmth and aloof wild-man intensity from James Franco (and a refreshingly great deal of comic relief), the film remains mostly successful in its stinging survivalist details and desperate daily routines rather than in its psychological viewpoints and near-death premonitions. 
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Danny Boyle and Simon Beaufoy (credited as co-writers) do a nice job of building up Aron's self-image as he moves from hapless climber to social outcast, but even with a great deal of man vs. nature symbolism and supernatural overtones, the film remains too mechanical and muffled to be truly felt.

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And thus, something is amiss here between the liberating self-discovery at hand and Mr. Boyle's deafening sensory amplification (including that unfortunate guitar-riff soundtrack) to the point where the two eventually butt heads, in effect dulling and diluting the spiritual resonance of Aron's miraculous survival story.

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All I know is what I feel and after the brief amount of time that has elapsed since leaving the theater, the only images and feelings that indelibly remain are that of a mutilated right arm and the lingering quotient of queasiness. [C+]

Again With the Aliens

I assume I'll be seeing this trailer for Jonathan Liebesman's Battle: Los Angeles (Sony/Columbia, 3.11.11) today in front of Tony Scott's Unstoppable. I would hope it wouldn't be shown before Skyline, you might have people just skip out. 
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But seriously, this is about as well-cut a trailer as you'll find for this type of stuff. Roland Emmerich just bought his tickets. 
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Review: Monsters (2010)

My gut reaction to Gareth Edwards' Monsters was that it was complete shit, but perhaps that was a slight overreaction. I have to give credit where credit is due and the fact that the film tries to be more than meets the eye should be commended, but it's a slippery slope and ultimately, it succumbs to its lofty, ever-changing motivations - it's more of an "okay, I get what you're doing, but no thanks" kind of thing.
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Monsters is never the creature-feature genre film that most people will be expecting when they dive into it. As it evolves, it flips the switch from a hazardous road movie to slow-burning love story to U.S.-Mexico border-trafficking political allegory.
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The problem is that it speaks too loudly and arrives too late on the heels of James Cameron's Avatar and Neil Blomkamp's District 9 - both message-laden science-fiction efforts that used colonization and alien invasion respectively to paint portraits of man's primal nature of domination. (Here, the U.S. soldiers hum "Ride of the Valkyries" in their humvee - how barbaric!) 
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It does become clear that Edwards has a keen visual eye and is working from a good place (his clever, out-of-focus cinematography is used well, especially in the final shot), but the film ultimately can't balance both its obvious political and ecological undertones with its science-fiction setting. To put it plainly, those out for blood will be thoroughly disappointed - and who can blame them? [C]

Wacky Wednesday

Well, it's not really all that wacky, but I have a brief one-day reprieve from school work and an usual amount of time on my hands to head into the city to catch Gareth Edwards' Monsters. I don't really know what to expect, but I'm always up for some science-fiction, especially if it's an import. 
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And strangely I'm looking forward to Tony Scott's Unstoppable on Friday plus Danny Boyle's 127 Hours, which is a no-brainer and a must-see if you're into watching and following the awards season unfold over the next few months. I'm almost obligated to go. 

Jane Eyre Poster

There aren't many bold or conceptual poster designs in the domestic realm these days, but this one-sheet stunner for Cary Fukunaga's Jane Eyre (Focus Features, 3.11) is the exception to the rule. 
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Of course, Mia Wasikowska will play the title role and the great Michael Fassbender will play Mr. Rochester (two inspired casting strokes if you ask me), but Cary Fukunaga is the big draw for me, who brought such a lived-in authenticity to his striking debut, Sin Nombre.
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Review: Morning Glory (2010)

After seeing Roger Michell's Morning Glory last night in a packed house at the Dallas Angelika, I can honestly say that it's a complete and utter turd. Jeff Wells, you can forget Broadcast News,  this isn't even The Devil Wears Prada - hell, it's not even Aaron Sorkin's smarmy, ill-fated TV series, "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip." 
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No, because to make that distinction, you'd be (wrongfully) suggesting that everyone and everything in Morning Glory isn't complete bullshit - a fantasyland girl-tackles-corporate America romantic comedy that's about as sweet and sugary as its fictional morning talk show "Daybreak". 
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It's one of those films that less advocate and stingy film-goers will really dig because it's full of good-looking people and safe, on-the-rails character arcs that safely land home in the end, but anybody looking for some whole-grain fiber will be laughed at, derided and then handed a plate of donuts with extra glaze.
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Rachel McAdams certainly cements her status as an adorable leading lady, but this is an empty, one-note performance of high-intensity workaholic peppiness that becomes grating after, well, the opening scene. 
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And Michell, the director without a clue, never reels in the bat-shit insanity of the performances or the one-way convenience of Aline Brosh McKenna's tasteless script, which is essentially just a blatant rehash of her past work. (Hey, lets replace Meryl Streep with Harrison Ford and set it in the anything-goes hilarity of the network TV world!)
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And that's the basic flow of this thing - tireless, energetic, rookie television producer (McAdams) trying to crack the egg that is the stuffy old journalist-turned-drunkard (Ford) all the while falling in love for the hunky co-worker (Patrick Wilson). Morning talk-shows have never been depicted so passionately - or so squeamishly. [C-]

What's the Story?

I'm seeing Roger Mitchell's Morning Glory (Paramount, 11.10) tomorrow evening mostly because of Jeff Wells' thumbs-up review posted last Friday. 
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I'm not expecting anything great, but if it can manage to be fluffy and inconsequential in an amusing, whip-smart way, then maybe I'll half-like it. The consensus I'm hearing on the wavelengths is that it's more The Devil Wears Prada than Broadcast News, if that. We'll see.