It happens early in “127 Hours.”
A boulder slides down a narrow canyon behind Aron Ralston, pinning his right wrist and forearm against the wall.
In fact, the entrapment occurs so early in director Danny Boyle’s drama, a moviegoer could fear that something boring this way comes.
Instead, in a vigorously true work, James Franco mesmerizes as the Colorado mountaineer who became famous — and remains so — after he was forced to amputate his arm to escape certain demise in Utah’s Little John Canyon in 2003.
Of course, the first fears that this film will be a slog are not unreasonable. After all, Ralston was hiking alone when the incident happened. Because he hadn’t left a note back in Aspen about his intentions, it would be some time before friends, family, colleagues began to fret.
The usual sources of time-running-out tension — the determined, desperate search; the pervasive worry of loved ones — won’t be relied upon here. Not only is Ralston trapped; so are we.
And this is the gripping genius of Boyle’s approach. In his impressive follow-up to “Slumdog Millionaire,” the Academy Award-winning director honors the lure of solitude while at the same time celebrating the beautiful necessity of other people.
He establishes this seeming contrast during the opening credits. Like nearly all of his films — “Shallow Grave” and “Trainspotting” come to mind — this movie begins with unbridled verve. Music blares, and the choice of Free Blood’s song “Never Hear Surf Music Again” is pitch perfect. (“There must be some — blank — chemical in our brain that makes us different from animals. . .” go the lyrics.)
Split-screen images of a scruffy guy packing hurriedly for a quicky sojourn are juxtaposed with images of swarms of people, the latter representing, Boyle recalled in an interview (and quoting famed climber Joe Simpson) “the living world of anxiety.” Coloradans and other Westerners in particular know that desire to escape the human throng for the natural world.
Co-written by Boyle and “Slumdog” scribe Simon Beaufoy, “127 Hours” trims Ralston’s accomplished and eloquent memoir, “Between a Rock and a Hard Place” (2004) into lean drama. It zeroes in on an individual while exalting the universal, the powerfully human.
Boyle explores the darkest of moments, but believes in the magnetic tug of a thing called love: parental, filial, romantic. The list of tender nuances goes on.
Could we do what Ralston did to free ourselves? Incredibly fit, an outdoor guide and one-time mountain rescuer, he knew a great deal about survival, about dehydration, about sinew and bone.
But would each of us do everything possible to rejoin those who matter to us? That’s the question at the heart of “127 Hours.”
Franco is ace at capturing Ralston’s love of the life lived outdoors. He’s nearly ecstatic as he bikes from his car to the canyons. Happily he bounds along rock and rutted road, music blasting in a headset. The joy continues when he hooks up with two hikers.
Kristi and Megan were the last to have contact with Ralston before his accident. Kate Mara and Amber Tamblyn capture the caution and fondness that can pass between strangers. It’s a gendered thing, and a canny scene: their initial suspicion of a solitary guy racing toward them out of nowhere, scarf over his face. The trio’s spontaneous adventure is — in a word — awesome. He’s still buzzy (and we’re still smiling) when soon after, he slips in the canyon.
Over time, his surprise is replaced by a dance between a freaked-out self and a beautifully problem-solving mind. Ralston graduated with a double major in French and mechanical engineering.
Boyle’s unerring focus on Ralston doesn’t mean “127 Hours” is without other humans; far from it. The film is rife with flashbacks and memories (and there is a soaring raven that comes to mean a great deal to Ralston, too.)
Early on, Ralston begins leaving his loved ones video commentary. Perhaps it says something loony and true about our culture of self-surveillance that Ralston brought a videocamera, but not a functional knife.
In a pivotal scene, his water running low and a kind of fuzzy delirium setting in, Aron Ralston takes himself to task. It’s an ace performance of recrimination and sorrow.
From nearly the start of the disaster, Ralston knows the only way to free himself is to lose his arm. Boyle is a master of the tactile, the visceral. And the dismemberment is brilliantly crafted. Sound, more than sight, does the trick.
But the fundamental power of “127 Hours” isn’t really about the arm.
It’s about three little words we all should use from time to time. And though “I love you,” is a good guess, see the film for the answer.
Film critic Lisa Kennedy: 303-954-1567 or lkennedy@ denverpost.com. Also on blogs.denverpostcom/ madmoviegoer
“127 Hours.”
R for language and some disturbing violent content/bloody images. 2 hours, 13 minutes. Directed by Danny Boyle; written by Boyle and Simon Beaufoy; from the book “Between a Rock and a Hard Place,” by Aron Ralston; photography by Anthony Dod Mantle; starring James Franco, Amber Tamblyn, Kate Mara, Clemence Poesy, Kate Burton, Lizzy Caplan. Opens today at area theaters.
