For all its excesses, the movie is enormously fascinating, mostly entertaining, and always a delight to the eyes and ears (if not always to the stomach).
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"Walk down the right back alley in Sin City, and you can find anything...."
--Mickey Rourke, "Sin City"
I would be remiss if I didn't begin by providing a warning and a disclaimer. "Sin City," as its name implies, is an extremely violent and profane film. Its indulgence in blood and gore is endless and unrelenting, glorying in murder, mayhem, mutilation, decapitation, cannibalism, torture, and the destruction of every body part, public and private, you can name. Yet it manages to engross the senses from the first minute to the last. It is not a film for your Aunt Martha from River City. It may not even be a film for you. Indeed, I find it bemusing to note that since the movie's release, it has been assailed by any number of self-proclaimed critics who have denounced its violence, the very same people who no doubt praised the excessively brutal liberties taken in Mel Gibson's "Passion of the Christ." Go figure. Nevertheless, for those folks who are forewarned and, thus, forearmed, "Sin City" can be a load of fun.
Based on stories in the graphic (comic-book) novels of writer Frank Miller, 2005's "Sin City" is noir to the nines. Robert Rodriguez directed the film ("El Mariachi," "Desperado," "From Dusk Till Dawn"), and also shot and edited it, with co-directing help from Miller ("Robocop 2," "Daredevil," "Elektra") and Quentin Tarantino ("Reservoir Dogs," "Pulp Fiction," "Kill Bill"), without whose pioneering "Pulp Fiction" this present film would probably never have been made.
"Sin City" is, therefore, a movie based on a series of comic-book adventures, which in turn were inspired by writers Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Mickey Spillane as well as Hollywood's film noir of the forties and early fifties. But it's like nothing the mystery writers or the Hollywood studios ever produced. Instead, it's like the horror-thriller comic books of the late forties and early fifties that were so brutal, so violent, that the comic-book industry finally enacted a form of self-censorship that lasted for decades. With "Sin City" there is little self-censorship. Every act of madness imaginable is presented in graphic detail.
Of course, there is nothing so harsh depicted in "Sin City" that hasn't happened in real life a hundred, a thousand, times over. Think of the Holocaust, the world's multiple serial killings, the brutality of everyone from the ancient Persians to the modern Nazis. Yet it's seldom that we see such acts committed to the screen for the benefit of sheer "entertainment." And make no mistake about, "Sin City" is entertaining. But while its on-screen violence may seem at first blush repulsive and extreme, it is the kind that one cannot take seriously. It's comic-book violence; it's exaggeration for the sake of amusement and nothing more. It's Wile E. Coyote being blown to smithereens for the umpteenth time and getting up and going at it again. No, the violence doesn't have the balletic grace of movies like "Enter the Dragon," "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," "Hero" or "House of Flying Daggers"; nor does it have the sheer kinetic energy of the killing sprees in "Kill Bill." What "Sin City" does offer are some lively and imaginative-looking (if intentionally clichéd) characters; a steady, exciting, sometimes riveting pace; a macabre sense of humor; and, most important, a highly original "look" based on a very old noir concept.
As we would expect, the plot of "Sin City" involves comic-book heroes and villains, pulp-fiction caricatures grounded in the old-fashioned ideals of good and evil. It's just that in this case, the film being as dark as it is, good doesn't always prevail, at least not in the sense we're used to.
The movie contains three basic stories (discounting a brief introductory passage that sets the tone for the rest of the film), all of them loosely connected. The first and best of the lot involves a huge, Neanderthal brute named Marv, who is pursuing the murderer of his only true love. Marv is the latest incarnation of Raymond Chandler's Moose Malloy from "Farewell My Lovely," here wonderfully embodied by Mickey Rourke wearing a prosthetic forehead, nose, and chin that turn him into a veritable living hulk. Marv may be a crude, cartoonish beast who stepped right out of a comic book, but he would never hurt a woman; and when somebody kills the only girl he ever adored, Goldie (Jaime King), nothing will stand in his way of revenge. It's good to see Rourke back in a starring role again, even if we can't quite make out who he is under all the makeup. And it's good to see sweet-faced Elijah Wood as the evil "Kevin," a character so foul I don't even want to think about the things he does to people.
The second story of importance is about an aging police detective, Hartigan (Bruce Willis), who's about to retire but wants to clean up one last case before he does. He's determined to put a pedophile-killer (Nick Stahl) behind bars, even though the killer is the son of a U.S. Senator (Powers Boothe), who protects his son from on high. Moreover, Hartigan is equally determined to save the life of a girl, Nancy (Mackenzie Vega and as the character grows older, Jessica Alba), who is the killer's latest victim. Hartigan is your typical hard-ass good guy, as honest as the day is long and as tough and resolute as they come. Naturally, he's a stereotype; he's supposed to be a stereotype; all of these characters are stereotypes, which is why we love them. Willis seems born to play the part, although it isn't much of a leap of acting ability for him. Probably the best role in this episode, however, is that of the miscreant, a sickly, gnomelike eunuch referred to in the closing credits only as "Yellow Bastard."
The third story concerns a character most like those of old Hollywood film noirs. Clive Owen plays Dwight, an antihero that Robert Mitchum might have portrayed in the old days. Indeed, Owen even looks like Mitchum from "Out of the Past." This is also the segment that discredits the notion put forth by some of the film's detractors that it's entirely sexist. This segment is about a gang of women prostitutes who defend their turf with their lives (and with the help of Dwight, although they don't really seem to need him). Maybe Miller threw in this chapter to balance out all the women who die in the other sections of the film. Anyway, the women are a rough-and-tumble crew, whose most lethal assassin, Miho (Devon Aoki), uses swords the way Tarantino likes women to use swords. This segment is also notable for Benicio Del Toro spending most of his time with a gun in his head. No, not a gun to his head, but a gun literally in his head.
Nor should we overlook the film's dark comedy, without which the film would be a rather tedious chore. The stories may be superficially grim, but I assure you they are most often done up in good humor, too, with a lot of intentionally funny stuff going on. When Dwight confronts an evildoer in a bathroom, and the hood tells him, "You're making a big mistake, pal," Dwight replies, "Yeah, you already made a big mistake yourself. You didn't flush," and pushes the guy's head underwater. Later, when Dwight needs to carry a load of corpses for disposal, he asks his lady friends for a "hardtop with a decent engine, and make sure it's got a big trunk." But I liked the scene where a baddie gets shot in the chest with an arrow and just stands there looking at it as it extends through his back, wondering what in the heck just happened; then he gets shot with an arrow to the forehead and his face reflects an expression of "Hey, this just ain't my day."
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