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127 hours - Danny Boyle - 127 hours

Where Danny Boyle appears as a manic-depressive who would not know of depressive phases.
With a history that only Robert Bresson and Chantal Akerman extremist or a real filmmaker could handle (a man stuck at the bottom of a canyon, his arm stuck, for 127 hours), Danny Boyle still manages to make a clip (c is in his extremism him), a long half past one advertisement that would sell in the end nothing other than itself.
It amuses me that free, and allows the film to join a film category rather happy: the nanar. Danny Boyle has a thousand ideas a second, and none is good. Accelerated, slowed, shots inside a straw (!), split-screens, dream sequences, sequences fantasized, flashbacks, hallucinations, jerks: any rate, time never passes through any of the plans, and it is entitled only to the excitation of a filmmaker who missed struggles to not get bored. The bidding is such that the film is hilarious.
The story borders on idiocy. One would think that a dying man has some deep thoughts. In Danny Boyle, no. In Danny Boyle, when we will die, you think of Scooby Doo. Only evidence of the maturity that the approach of death gives humans: the hero gives up wank before the picture of a nice pair of tits. That said, there is no evidence that the reason for this inability is any maturity. It may be simply because the hand he still is not free hand with which he usually masturbates (and what good habits change when you know you will die? ).
James Franco is the anti-Isabelle Huppert, so that it becomes confusing. He does not play at all the pain. Just a rock to crush his hand and breaking his arm, and at no time does it badly. When one imagines what would have been Huppert such a role, we are already anxious. This apparent nonchalance of the main actor gives the film an incredible distance.
The best scene is pretty much: James Franco drinks the last drops of his gourd, Danny Boyle hid his camera in the bottom of the flask, and the language of Franco films passing through the orifice. The movie looks like this: oral sex in a sock, a muscular effort without result, or the courtship of a pigeon trapped alone in an attic. I want to be Danny Boyle
three or four days a year. All satisfy me. I would ask myself does not matter. No other movie, no book, no thought seems to me overwhelming. I could do anything and I'll do anything. That would be happiness, it would be cocaine, and I have created the impression of my time while feeling particularly suited me.