Catfish has been eluding me since Sundance, where tickets were scarce from the moment it was first accorded a bit of festival buzz. I thought it might be somewhere in one of the Cannes strands, but it wasn't, and thought it would be perfect for Edinburgh, which its US backers obviously didn't. Luckily, I managed to avoid all spoilers before seeing it last week, and though I've hated having to wait so long, I think the film actually benefits from a December release in the UK, as it gives viewers a bit of time to see The Social Network first. Not that the two films are at all similar, just that David Fincher's film makes a very interesting first half of a web-age double bill.
The style of Catfish may put some people off, simply because it has a very self-indulgent air to it. There are three protagonists – two filmmakers and their 'subject' – but the boundaries are so blurred it's almost impossible to tell what, if any, kind of objectivity exists. It also has the feel of a baseball game, with all three players bouncing cameras around and jockeying for hoops, like a postmodern Harlem Globetrotters. The trio come across as privileged and a little smug, which is why the film has been accused of, for want of a better phrase, being fake, although I don't think it is. Maybe some of it is is somewhat enhanced, but I think the basis of the story that unfolds is essentially sound.
I'll try to avoid spoilers and just go for the premise, which is that NY dance photographer Nev Schulman was contacted one day by a little girl named Abby from the midwest, who had sent him a painting she'd made of one his snaps. Nev contacted the girl, spoke to her mother and older sister, and made himself a whole new set of Facebook friends – to the delight of his brother Ariel and his filmmaking partner Henry Joost, who decided to make a documentary out of it. This is perhaps the sticky part, since it doesn't really seem much of a subject, though Nev and Joost maintained to me last week that the story was initially to be that of the child prodigy. However, that soon went out of the window when certain discrepancies arose, pulling back the curtain on a whole other story.
Needless to say, Abby is not entirely what she seems – even though she does exist and is a normal little girl – and the turn Catfish then takes is to become an entirely modern exploration of online relationships. The handling of this is far from subtle but the themes it raises are quite haunting, mostly in the way social networks such as Facebook have become both a filter and a forum, allowing us to project and refine our dreams, our ambitions and our self-image. The title isn't explained until the last reel, but it gives the film a nice payoff and a much-needed shot of human warmth. If it's a fraud, Catfish is a very, very good one, and you can consider me fooled.
Another film that surprised me was the closing film, Danny Boyle's 127 Hours (right), which offers a visceral insight into what happens when Pepsi Max adverts go wrong. Spoilers are inevitable on this one, since it's a true story, but I'll try to refrain from the big one: good luck with avoiding it elsewhere. It stars James Franco as Aron Ralston, a hiking fanatic and adventurer who goes walking in the Utah mountains, falls down a crevasse and gets stuck. For, yes, 127 hours. By himself. Not exactly an ideal subject for cinema, you might think, but Boyle handles Ralston's dilemma perfectly (and it is a genuine dilemma). Because rather than going for sobriety and drama, Boyle opts for vibrancy and energy, and though Ralston emerges as something of a copper-bottomed twat, his optimism infuses the film right through its grisly but ultimately life-affirming climax.
Franco is responsible for a lot of this, making an unsympathetic, rather selfish character perhaps more likeable than you might expect him to be, but Boyle, and his twin DOPs Anthony Dod Mantle and Enrique Chediak need a bit of credit here too. I hadn't expected the film to be so much fun, and yet it is, with a wonderful moral/message – this too shall pass – that lingers in the mind long after the credits. It's been accused of being slight but I think that's harsh, and I'm sure some of the US cinemagoers who had to be treated by paramedics for shock would definitely disagree. For me, 127 Hours is a gripping, intense experience that plays pizzicato with your nerve ends, sending you out not knowing what's hit you, but in a good way, with a great big goofy Franco smile.
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