I saw a movie yesterday in the theater and didn’t have snacks.
Blasphemy, I know.
But 127 Hours didn’t seem like a nachos kinda film. So much has been written about the gross-out factor of Danny Boyle’s latest effort. It may have been nominated for six Academy Awards including Best Picture, but much of the media attention has focused on the audience reaction.
People passing out in their seats. Vomiting in the aisles. Staggering out of the cineplex, mentally scarred for life.
Popcorn didn’t seem prudent.
Nevertheless, I bravely walked into the theater, a super-sized Diet Coke my only comfort, and watched the film. When it was over, I wished I could take off a few arms myself — of the folks who wrote those misleading, alarmist statements!
The bloodshed in 127 Hours is no worse than what you’ve seen in any number of Hollywood action films, and it lasts about 90 seconds. Tarentino fans no doubt will find it lame. It was harder for me to watch James Franco’s face as he made the agonizing decision to cut off his own arm as his only means of survival.
Sure, it’s a bit gutty, but you can always turn away if need be. But that one scene does not set the tone for the entire film.
127 Hours is spiritual and inspiring — the soul searching exploration of a man wrestling between the acceptance of a certain death and his will to survive.
I almost didn’t see 127 Hours because I thought it would make me sick. If someone else misses it for the same reason, I would feel even worse.