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Film models comic likeness
By Nick Hanson
Published:
Thursday, April 7, 2005
Not too long ago, I downloaded an illegal copy of "Grand Theft Auto III" to my laptop.
I'm embarrassed to admit that was the first time I'd ever played the game. Supposedly, it's almost as bad as admitting you've never seen the "Godfather" saga or "Scarface."
For thirty-six straight hours, I carved my dark legacy across the noir landscape of Liberty City. I assigned myself a strict moral code (no killing women, senior citizens or sleek automobiles) and began slaughtering every creeping gangster, pimp, mob boss and honest citizen in sight.
Streaking weightlessly down the night highway with the music roaring in a top-down convertible, I could feel the wind, the adrenaline, the testosterone, the terrible freedom...
And then, as suddenly as I began, I dumped the game from my hard drive. Forever.
I take the same approach to "Sin City," the new film by maverick director Robert Rodriguez and comic book icon Frank Miller.
Based upon Miller's graphic novel series of the same name, "Sin City" is the most faithful film adaptation of any source material. Ever.
It's also the most gleefully depraved flick since "Pulp Fiction" and the "Kill Bill" volumes.
The film takes place under the black sky of Basin City, where hitmen and hookers, crooked politicians and serial cannibals all conglomerate in a nightmare fantasy of violence, sex and more violence.
Computer-generated, except for a wealth of big-name actors, "Sin City" is a special-effects milestone, a stunning visual feast. It recreates the look and feel of the noir comic with jaw-dropping precision. No other movie has redefined the comic book film genre so completely.
Mickey Rourke heads a top-flight cast that includes Bruce Willis, Michael Madsen, Benicio Del Toro and Clive Owen. Rosario Dawson, Jamie King and Jessica Alba highlight the works as stunning femmes fatale.
Robert Rodriguez handpicked three of the best "Sin City" paperbacks and lashed them together in "Pulp Fiction" fashion.
"The Hard Goodbye," "The Big Fat Kill" and "That Yellow Bastard" illustrate the three cornerstone themes of film noir's existential philosophy: death, endurance and suicide.
Each story revolves around a flawed, and nearly-immortal, male archetype of the noir tradition. Silent and brooding, they communicate their dark thoughts through terse, butchered narration.
The first major "Sin City" story, anchored by Mickey Rourke's man-bull Marv, could be ripped out and nailed to a museum wall as the ultimate piece of film noir. Nothing that Humphrey Bogart touched, not "The Maltese Falcon" or "In a Lonely Place" or "The Big Sleep," has so vividly captured the look and feel and taste of the genre.
Unfortunately, the other two stories, starring Clive Owen and Bruce Willis, were written with less inspiration. We get two-thirds of a movie with eye-popping visuals and no depth, all bark and little bite.
Except for a scene that features Benicio Del Toro's head (guest-directed by Quentin Tarantino), it's mostly material we've already seen.
No matter. I would have gladly paid ten bucks for the first forty-five minutes.
Ever since Robert Rodriguez created Johnny Depp's delightfully demented CIA agent in "Once Upon a Time in Mexico," I've branded him as a second-rate Quentin Tarantino. In fact, "Sin City" could be viewed as a tasty entr�e between Tarantino's scarce meals. It fits somewhere below "Fiction" and just above "Jackie Brown." Not a bad distinction.
"Sin City" works exactly like the "Grand Theft Auto" series; It's a novel idea that wears off with repetition. It's not for everyone, In fact, it's probably not for anyone. But, for a round or two, it's fun as hell.
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