Chumming the depths of hell

Sin City (2005)
Miramax/Dimension presents a Frank Miller and Robert Rodriguez film, starring Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke and Benecio Del Toro. Written by Miller. 124m. R for sustain strong stylized violence, nudity and sexual content.

4 stars

The first thing you inevitably notice about Robert Rodriguez’s new film, “Sin City,” is that it’s going to play by its own made-up rules.

The black and white film is contrasted by occasional bright red hues, black-light induced whites and shimmering golds. Its setting belongs to parts of three distinct generations. The first is the 1930s, when Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler were cooking up stories as hard-boiled as they come. The second is a pseudo-1950s, littered with ornate cars with little overall functionality and former manufacturing towns on the precipice of becoming metropolises. And one can’t help but see the grime of overly perverse sex and violence of modern times, of leather-clad dominatrices and big-breasted women who saunter slowly across the screen so that a drooling male audience can absorb every curve and line.

As a wannabe comic nerd and a vociferous supporter of film noir and detective novels, I loved “Sin City.” Those who find themselves similarly immersed in this dank underworld created from the pages of graphic novelist Frank Miller might consider taking a cold shower after this two-hour collection of vignettes.

While the stories exist independently of each other, they are linked by both their setting - the seedy Basin City - and their advocacy of troubled males with littered pasts helping dames in need.

There’s Hartigan (Bruce Willis), a soon-to-be-retired detective who just can’t shake this kiddie rape case that’s been nagging him. The deeper he digs, the quicker he realizes that power brokers have worked overtime to protect familial interests. It all ends badly, mostly because it has to, down by a pier while 11-year-old Nancy (Makenzie Vega) looks at her savior with doe eyes.

Hartigan last words before trailing off are hard-boiled poetry: “An old man dies. A young girl lives. A fair trade.”

While we’ve known for years Mickey Rourke wasn’t much to look at, he’s completely disfigured while assuming the role of Marv, a giant ape and a one-man revenge squadron. The victim? A hooker (Jaime King) who showed him a spot of kindness and wound up dead in one of those frame jobs.

Marv’s brutish nature is a bundle of acknowledged contradictions. His soft spot for Goldie, the hooker, is quite a disparity from the torture of her killer’s co-conspirators. In the hands of Marv, victims pray for a swift retribution that never materializes.

It all ends badly, because it has to, with Marv in the hands of Basin City’s evil patriarchs. As the powers that be rip several thousand volts through his system, the ape taunts: “Is that the best you can do, you pansies?”

Finally, there’s Dwight (Clive Owen), a known murder who’s found a new face and started acting like a half-crazed vigilante. He the self-assigned protector of Shellie (Brittany Murphy), a waitress with a menacing one-night stand (Benecio Del Toro) that won’t leave her alone.

Dwight’s true alliance with the prostitutes who run Oldtown comes in conflict with his meting out justice. Soon, he’s protecting one corruption by destroying another. There is no right or wrong in “Sin City,” just self-proscribed revenge.

My chief complaint about comic book adaptations turned into feature films is that the studios always hedge their bets. Trying to attract both demographics, too many directors see the comic book through their own tried-and-true film techniques. Rodriguez is a maverick, a pioneer in both digital filmmaking and someone unafraid to take calculated risks. He considers Miller’s novels sacrosanct, appropriating each panel and translating it to the screen. The result is the most alive comic book ever created. (Rodriguez also resigned from the Director’s Guild of America so that he could share co-directing credit with Miller, who didn’t sit behind a camera but instead directed the action in the books.)

The action delights in wild contrasts, not only in those created by the permeation of color in a two-toned world, but in over-the-top interactions. True to a comic book realm, people are struck by high-speed cars and stand up to walk without a second thought. Everyone’s dialogue is short, crisp and full of imagery. Women are “dames” and a beat up jalopy is a “bucket of bolts.” There’s constant internal narration by the male leads, which either heightens the experience or is a constant reminder to audiences that they’re watching a film. I’d like to believe it augments the action and oftentimes gives purpose or motivation to some seemingly poor decisions.

By the time the film reverts to Hartigan’s surprisingly continuing storyline, the pacing has been thrown a little off track. The twists won’t cease, however, so the audience jumps back on for another ride.

Ultimately, the film is a lot of things; misogynistic and ultra-violent immediately come to mind. It won’t be for everyone. Yet those looking for the ultimate opportunity for escapism may not have to look any farther than the back alleys of “Sin City.”