When I first read about 127 I assumed it would be another stunt in the ever-growing performance piece that is James Franco’s life. The man’s creative output is mindboggling – working on multiple concurrent masters degrees in four subjects at three Universities in two states while pumping out (wait for it…) performances in Milk and Howl (twofer!). Imagine the surprise of Franco fans everywhere when Internet chatter indicated his next film would be about ‘a guy stuck under a rock for one hundred and twenty seven hours.’
How the hell do you pitch that? Just a classic dude-stuck-under-a-rock story. A modern reimagining of Atlas? Some metaphor for addiction without Gus Van Zandt? When I read the synopsis I thought of a few things this film would have to include, things I thought would deter me from wanting to see it. Strangely enough they’re the same reasons I never pledged a fraternity.
1) Lots of dude-crying
2) Urine drinking
3) Masturbating if not for the tears
127 wasn’t just good for a movie about a dude under a rock, it was good as the cinema, as an institution, is strange. There’s a formula here that I’ve yet to fully deduce, but it goes something like this. In his seminal work on screen writing, Bob McKee points out that going to the movies is frankly bizarre. Why would a bunch of strangers sit in intimate proximity to one another, in the dark, to feel a myriad of emotions they would otherwise go to great lengths to avoid in real life? My equation is that in order for a movie to be good the sum value of its entertainment must exceed the creepiness of being stuck in a closet with a total stranger for nearly two hours. 127 does this, but not in any obvious way.
127 doesn’t have a plot in that classic sense. Immediately you’d probably assume that because of this it’s some indie-free-form-revisionist plop of missing-the-point kind of movie adorned with trendy music people not in the know will then use to convince themselves they are so totes in the know. Alas Gardenstate and 127 share only one thing. In both films the leads scream at a giant hole in the ground. In one of these movies it made total sense, in the other it was a device used to display teenage angst and frustration but not related to the plot in anyway– and thus as replaceable as cutting oneself (Girl, Interrupted) or snorting cocaine in a dive bar bathroom (A Winter Passing, London). While the scenes of these other movies are swappable, 127 is totally unique in its subject matter and as such razor specific as to the devices employed. The result is thought provoking. Enough, maybe, to make me forget about the dude next to me wheezing in the dark.
So while the movie is not relatable to a typical Hollywood archplot it does have one of the most primitive forms of conflict: Man vs. Nature (dude vs. rock). MvN stories are so milked and predictable (one could say satisfied by contemplating our mammalian instinct) that they hardly mak their way to the big screen. Maybe this is because they avoid the typical archplot formula.Perhaps it’s because they strike a brutally honest chord about human nature since MvN always, eventually, comes down to man vs. himself and that tends to get a bit invasive.
127 is voyeurism at its most refined. It works for the same reason the E! Channel and Bravo exist but without making it clear there is a large demographic out there that should be shot into space.
Or in the head.
