One Style Does Not Fit All

by James Hansen

The only really positive thing about Danny Boyle’s 127 Hours is that the audience gets what it expects. The story of Aron Ralston – the extreme adventurer who amputated his lower right arm to free himself from a boulder which pinned him in Blue John Canyon for 127 hours – was a media circus when the event took place in 2003 and has become a well-known inspirational story. Boyle, long before the success of his supremely overrated Oscar winner Slumdog Millionaire (2008), defined himself as an “auteur” to the film community by crafting a highly kinetic visual style and spinning it through a variety of genres, most successfully in the druggie epic Trainspotting (1996) and the contemporary zombie spin 28 Days Later (2002).

If Boyle’s best work indicates the ability of his style to cross heterogeneous genres, his worst films loudly illustrate exactly that one style does not not fit all. In these cases, Boyle undermines his own films by confronting his narrative logic, his actors, and his actual story with cut-and-paste stylistic “obsessions” which grate against those former elements. Boyle’s direction (and his entire movie) ends up having nothing to do with the material at hand, but, rather, stands as a useless continuation of expected, inappropriate directorial choices. Case and point: 127 Hours – a story of individual strength amidst extreme isolation and deathly circumstances as directed by a zombie with the Rage virus.


Problems start with the first frames of the film – a tryptych, split-screen of large groups of people, vehicles, and nature displaying Boyle’s “kinetic vibrancy.” The pop soundtrack propels us onto Aron Ralston (James Franco) setting off on his adventure. He screens his mom’s phone call, forgets his Swiss Army knife, and soon enough races through the canyon on his mountain bike. This split-screen method may intend to counterpose Ralston with that contemporary world, but Boyle’s use of it throughout the film destroys its credibility in that regard. That aside, Ralston appears enmeshed in a similar form of movement, a mere extension of the crowded city energy pushed out into nature.

If all this, as well as Ralston’s amusing trail-guide excursion with a couple lost girls, showcases a thematic shift once the boulder traps him, Boyle and company seem either unaware or unwilling to let the challenge of their story – supreme desolation – become a demanding element for the limited audience who wants to see this as a cinematic narrative in the first place. Aside from one nice, if expected, shot of Ralstion crying for help as the camera tracks out and above the vast, confined canyon, Ralston never feels very alone. By repeatedly intercutting scenes of Ralston in alternate locations with masses of people, friends, and family, Boyle removes 127 Hours from the precarious situation at hand and uses it as a pedestal to launch into overwrought flashbacks and sequences which more aptly fit his stylistic choices. In allowing other characters to become a part of the movie during the crucial time span, Boyle lets the audience (and himself) off easy. Ralston appears here, there, and everywhere allowing his position to embody a dramatic one-liner instead of a draining and stirring emotional and temporal experience. Things become so confused in Boyle’s stylistic rampage that a fantastical dream sequence appears as plausible as Ralston’s seemingly unbelievable story.


Franco’s strong performance, slowly replacing his bemused loner attitude with anger, fear, and desperation, signals the emotional swings of his interpersonal journey through the traumatic experience. The dramaturgy, perhaps understandably, occasionally slips into histrionics, but Boyle’s push towards sentimentality thwarts the complex reasoning behind Ralston’s state, and hence his entire story. Much as Franco tries, Boyle’s moves undercut him at every direction.

In the film’s much-anticipated climax, Boyle finally demands that the audience face Ralston’s dire position head on. The amputation sequence has been a lot for the squeamish, and rightfully so. Saw really has nothing on this. But, in waiting for the final moments of this challenging story to make any kind of challenge, it becomes clear that Boyle is wholly unsure about and uncomfortable with the material, its questions, and its lessons. Rather than confront the difficult questions inherent in the actual story, Boyle pushes his own directorial machine buttons instead of anything else. In this way, Ralston becomes just an oddity with which Boyle could make another one of his “inspirational” movies. 127 Hours got what it expected from Boyle – kinetic style, tears, Dido, a children’s choir – but it needed something completely different.

C
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Oh, It's Potent, Bro

The latest production from Judd Apatow and His Band of Hilarious Motherfuckers, Pineapple Express, is a willfully genre-bending work comprised of such disparate elements as pot(ty) humor, (b)romance, fleeting lyricism (seriously), and extremely violent bursts of over-the-top (though often realistic) action. Helmed by indie veteran/heir to the Throne of Malick, David Gordon Green, and shot by Green’s longtime cinematographer, Tim Orr, Pineapple Express is not only bold in its risky melding and wry lampooning of multiple genres, but it is also the most aesthetically memorable and technically outstanding of all the Apatow productions thus far. Green’s direction is certainly not the sole source of the film’s effectiveness though – far from it. The hysterical screenplay by Superbad writers Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg oozes vivacious freshness when read by the film’s two spectacular leads – Rogen and James Franco – who both give iconic performances, particularly in the case of Franco as the lovable drug dealer, Saul Silver, whose purchase and subsequent distribution of a rare strand of weed known as “Pineapple Express” creates a fattie-sized McGuffin that gets the film rolling (please tell me you caught that). In fact, the only real problems in Pineapple Express occur when Rogen and Franco are off-screen, during which time the absence of their energetic chemistry and propulsive charisma is definitely noticeable – even if you’re stoned.


Pineapple Express begins harmlessly enough. Dale Denton (Rogen), a 25-year-old process server, ganja lover, and talk-radio aficionado is introduced through a humorous montage as a reluctant asshole who puts forth effort to inject a certain amount of flavor and creativity (via costumes) into his otherwise bloodless job. Dale’s immaturity, a staple of Apatow characterization, is revealed by the fact that he dates an 18-year-old high school girl, Angie (Amber Heard), and relishes in the slackerdom afforded by his job, rounding him out as another loveable goofball in a long line of lovable, if not always respectable, goofballs. However, even Dale feels superior to Franco’s greasy-haired, rerun-watching pot pusher, who may in fact be the sweetest character crafted by Apatow and the gang. Seeking to make friends, Saul offers Dale exclusive access to the aforementioned “Pineapple Express” marijuana, urging him to stay awhile and toke a “cross joint” – the holy grail of getting high. All goes smoothly and sedately, until Dale unwittingly witnesses a murder, committed by local drug kingpin and object of Dale’s latest serving assignment, Ted Jones (Gary Cole), and his dirty cop accomplice, Carol (Rosie Perez). During his fit of homicide induced hysteria, Dale drops an easily traceable sample of Saul’s rare marijuana, enabling Ted Jones to eventually put out a hit on both protagonists and turning Dale and Saul into hyper-paranoid bros-on-the-run.

Needless to say, the film’s premise leaves room for some jarring genre mixing and Green and co. take full advantage of and relish in these opportunities. Not only does Pineapple Express ratchet up the quality of the standard stoner banter in drug films, it also incorporates a positive appraisal of what is certainly homosocial, if not homosexual, behavior, and embraces a style of action that accentuates both jolting realism and parodic extravagance. The film essentially has multiple cakes – and it eats all of them at the same time, contrary to the popular adage, and, without a doubt, contrary to many moviegoers’ expectations, including mine. The juxtaposition of pothead levity and brutal death is admittedly confusing for those accustomed to the unspoken, yet rigorous, limitations of conventional genre (that being most of us), particularly when mixed with more than a dash of man-on-man eroticism. Pineapple Express is one of the few films in which the gore is consistently cringe-cringeworthy, but which also has the chutzpa to indulge in straight-up slapstick, including one memorable incident involving a deadly Daewoo, manned by Red (Danny McBride), one of Saul’s fellow dealers whose allegiances flip flop on a dime and whose absolute dorkdom provides numerous laughs, not to mention plot complications.


Keenly, David Gordon Green is careful to alternate cinematographic and editing styles throughout Pineapple Express, in addition to alternating genres and tones. Green strikes a balance between his characteristic moments of poetic inspiration and the demands of Hollywood convention. The filmmaking style ranges from moments that could fit into Green’s George Washington (2000) or All the Real Girls (2003), including a scene in which Dale and Saul frolic through sun-drenched woods like young lovers and a brief series of stunning lyrical landscape shots that precede the film’s hilariously self-referential breakfast-time coda, to the brisk editing rhythms and playful zooms of the film’s numerous fight sequences and shoot-outs, which illustrate Green’s understanding of mainstream aesthetics in a way that brings to mind the work of Edgar Wright. Green’s unique perspective makes Pineapple Express a Hollywood film that exudes both outsider freshness and relaxed familiarity, establishing a precedent that may enable more indie auteurs to cross over into Apatow-like territory.

Even though Green’s guidance is stellar, the real hands that pack Pineapple Express together (yes, like a bowl) belong to Rogen and Franco. The two actors’ shenanigans are endlessly watchable and their magnetism is undeniable. Not only is Rogen’s ability to carry a film cemented, but Franco’s future in comedy is also illuminated by the laugh-out-loud camaraderie between Pineapple Express’s stars, particularly during their well-crafted dialogue scenes. When the two of them disappear from the frame for more than 3 seconds, however, the film reveals just how dependent its success is on the dynamic duo. When the drug war subplot (resulting from confusion over just who Dale and Saul are working for – which is actually nobody) is given too much attention, the script loses focus and much of its edge and the movie sags considerably, particularly during the explosive finale. Hopefully, Rogen and Franco will be teamed up more regularly, a la Ferrell and Reilly, and Green will continue cranking out more mainstream fare – I know I could definitely use a second hit.

by Brandon Colvin
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