Boy, chimps sure are pissed at humans. At least that’s the case in Rise of the Planet of the Apes, a prequel to the Planet of the Apes series that portrays how those simians got so smart in the first place. Though the blowout is fierce, its origins are quite pedestrian, really: It was just an experiment gone wrong.

That, and a man who didn’t fight hard enough for his chimp. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault,” says scientist Will Rodman (James Franco) with guffaw-eliciting understatement after a sanctuary’s worth of chimpanzees, gorillas, and orangutans lose their shit on the Golden Gate Bridge. Landon’s responsible for creating a drug that regenerates brain cells in Alzheimer’s patients. His most promising test subject, Bright Eyes (its name one amongst several nods to the original film), appeared to have suffered violent side effects and was shot down. But not before giving birth — and passing along her altered genes — to Caesar (Andy Serkis, again working undetected under performance-capture technology). Caesar needs to be protected when the experiment is terminated, so Will takes the hirsute tyke home, teaching him language and raising him as a pet for his Alzheimer’s-plagued father (John Lithgow).

But as anyone who’s seen Project Nim knows, a chimp doesn’t remain domesticated forever, and soon Caesar is court-ordered to live the rest of his days in a sanctuary-as-prison. (You’ll hate its weasely, cruel keeper, played by Tom Felton, aka Harry Potter’s Draco Malfoy.) Though the other apes are not exactly welcoming to Caesar, he’s more dangerous than they are because of his lethal combination of intelligence and anger. A sadistic guardian, an owner who abandons him, peers who think they’re all alpha — of course things are about to go bananas.

Directed by Rupert Wyatt from a script by Rick Jaffa and Amanda Silver — no, none of these names are of any renown — Rise of the Planet of the Apes is a self-serious but still entertaining technological marvel. Serkis, who also played King Kong in Peter Jackson’s remake, brings Caesar to anthropomorphic life without seams; you’ll easily read his expressions yet never once question whether there’s a human underneath the hair. The other apes are just as majestic and fluid, their uprising a thrilling marvel to behold.

But where the action excels, the tone falters, with characters and dialogue that are a little too flat to make the film exceptional. Its only laughs are unintentional, such as when that famous line from the original is reprised — though it’s not because of the command itself, but the surprising response the deliverer gets from one damn, dirty ape.

For a movie about a brush with death, Danny Boyles’ 127 Hours bursts with life. Its first 20 minutes are a rush of joie de vivre, with pulsing, jubilant Slumdog Millionaire-esque music accompanying images of a Red Bull’d young man named Aron as he gets ready to spend the weekend in a Utah canyon. The writer-director splits the screen and flicks through scenes of the stuff the guy packs, the phone call he ignores, the string of taillights he sees as he hits late gridlock leaving the city. Once he gets to a camping ground, he says to his videocamera: “Just me, the music, and the night. Love it.”

The next day Aron is just as pumped, racing on his bike across orange earth and blue skies, laughing even when he takes a nasty fall. He’s clearly savoring being alone but is just as pleased when he runs into two lovely hikers (Amber Tamblyn and Kate Mara). Together they squeeze through unsanctioned trails, swim in an underground oasis, flirt like crazy, and have a great time. Their impromptu date ends with the girls inviting Aron to a party and then leaving him by his lonesome again. He returns to exploring the canyon, angling his body confidently through tight, nature-built hallways — until a boulder falls on his right arm, trapping him.

Only now does the title pop up, for only now does the film truly begin.

Everyone knows that 127 Hours is the true story of Aron Ralston, the adventurer who freed himself from that rock after the titular amount of time by amputating his arm. So the story isn’t about what but how — not only how Aron, buzzily played by James Franco, survived, but how Boyle and his star could make an intense but stagnant situation riveting for 94 minutes.

A terrific performance, naturally, was crucial, and Franco earns all the accolades he’s already been receiving, taking us with startling verite through the stages of Aron’s response to his seemingly fatal accident. There’s obstinate anger (”Move this fucking rock!” he yells to himself), panic (hearing his bellows for help echo through an utterly empty canyon is stomach-sinking), grief (he sobs as he nearly drowns during a storm). For much of the time, however, Aron stays as level-headed as anyone could in that situation, videotaping himself as he strategizes, leaves messages for his family, or just talks to the camera for something to do. When Aron realizes his dull utility knife isn’t going to help pare down that boulder — and he devises a tourniquet — Franco gives the camera a nearly mischievous look as the idea of amputation dawns.

Boyle, meanwhile, breaks up the potential monotony by interjecting flashbacks and Aron’s memories, the most gut-wrenching of which isn’t necessarily of his family but that he stubbornly told no one about where he was going that weekend. And then there’s that bubble of life again: As Aron grows delirious, he imagines himself at those girls’ party and, more crucial, sees a vision of the son he doesn’t yet have. It’s enough to finally make him cut through that arm, a scene which is of course squirm-inducing but not nearly as graphic as most horror movies, with Boyle switching and blurring angles.

Most critical to getting through the ordeal, though — both for Aron and the audience — is the sense of triumph that accompanies it. Galloping music (courtesy of Slumdog’s Oscar-winning composer A. R. Rahman) is followed by a moment of quiet when Aron is finally free; then there’s the harsh but welcome sunlight and a quickening soundtrack again. It’s joyful and cathartic, and a cinematic experience you won’t soon forget.

Pantsless in Pineapple

Forgive the phrasing, but the stoner comedy Pineapple Express starts on a high note. It’s 1937, on a military base filmed in black and white. (Stay with me: The prologue will make you wonder if you’re in the wrong theater even if you’re not baked.) The government is testing “Item 9” on one Pvt. Miller (Bill Hader), who’s forced to smoke the substance in a sealed room.

“How do you feel?” a researcher asks. “Well, sir, I feel like a slab of butter melting over…a big ol’ pile of flapjacks,” Miller says—extremely slowly. A follow-up about what Miller thinks of his boss induces a series of random impressions of musical instruments, assurances that “This [stuff] is great,” and then a string of expletives. The government’s conclusion is vehement and swift: “Illegal!”

Cut to the present, and Dale Denton (Seth Rogen) is toking and driving, also apparently demonstrating how harmless marijuana is by calling in to a talk show to argue for decriminalization. Dale makes his living as a process server, meaning he needs to come up with clever ways to deliver subpoenas and gets sworn at a lot.

To make life more pleasant, he smokes—constantly—and has recently begun buying from Saul (James Franco), the quintessential dealer: a genial longhair who’s on the couch nearly 24/7, watching old sitcoms and dozing with snacks close by. Saul is a puppy and takes a liking to Dale, selling him the new, rare strain of weed that gives the film its name and trying to get him to hang around by saying they can “look at some crazy things on the Internet together.”

The rapport between Rogen and Franco is immediately charming, and the movie’s best scenes are the early ones establishing their characters. Dale is typical Rogen, schlubby and stunted—he’s dating an 18-year-old high-school girl—but with hints of levelheaded promise. And Franco, a former member of the Judd Apatow family (Freaks and Geeks), has made up for years of forgettable, wooden dramatic turns with Saul: He’s more sweet than smart, loyal to his friends, and deals so he can take care of his grandma. Saul’s surfer-dude demeanor may scream stereotype, but Franco’s eyes have a sparkle beneath their glaze that’s irresistible.

More important, it’s pretty funny when they’re high together. Rogen and longtime friend/Superbad co-writer Evan Goldberg clearly write what they know: Watching the characters cough may get old fast, but odd stoner habits (what is it about ancient TV shows?) and conversations steered by short-term memory loss and sudden flares of hypersensitivity are more entertainingly subtle than the whoa-dude caricatures of Cheech & Chong and even Harold & Kumar.

But then Pineapple Express turns into an action movie, which is weird for a couple of reasons, not least of which is that the director is David Gordon Green, who made Snow Angels and All the Real Girls. Though the remainder of Pineapple Express’ 113 minutes isn’t exactly a comedown, the film starts to feel like it’s desperately chasing that first buzz.

Dale and Saul’s imbroglio begins when Dale is sitting in his car outside of the home of Ted Jones (Gary Cole), smoking while waiting to serve the guy papers. Dale freaks out when a cop (Rosie Perez) pulls up behind him; when she goes into Ted’s house and they both shoot a third man in plain view, Dale freaks some more.

He tosses his roach, spectacularly un-parallel parks, and runs to his only sorta-buddy for guidance. (The script is also sharp at addressing the unusual faux friendship that usually develops between a dealer and his clients.) When Saul tells him that he bought his stash of express indirectly from Ted—and that Dale’s the only person he’s sold it to—they hightail it, certain that Ted will find the joint and know that one of them witnessed the killing.

After a tedious scene of the pair hiding in the woods, the movie is overtaken by lots of hysteria and violence, countered only by interludes of now-familiar Apatowian bromance. Saul, Dale, and Saul’s supplier, Red (Danny McBride), bond, fight, and make up more realistically than anything starring Sandra Bullock; meanwhile, Dale’s relationship with his girlfriend (Amber Heard) exists only to show how immature he is.

The later scenes are fitfully amusing, but mostly just brash, if not downright surprising: Dale and Saul’s half-assed attempts at hand-to-hand combat are usually funny, but at some point the filmmakers go all Bad Boys on us, with machine guns wielded and people actually dying. In one scene, it seems as if Rogen, after Dale pile-drives Red into a wall, asks, “Was that too much?” as himself, not his character.

Yeah, it’s a little too much. But you’ll get that flapjack-butter feeling all over again when the guys later recap their adventure as if it were a crazy frat party—or a different movie.