Sin City Review
by Jon Popick (jpopick AT sick-boy DOT com)April 2nd, 2005
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Sin City, based on three of Frank Miller's seven graphic novels of the same name, is as faithful an interpretation as you're likely to ever see. People shouldn't even use the word "adaptation" to describe it, since Robert Rodriguez used Miller's books as more of a firm blueprint than a loose outline. That Rodriguez quit the Director's Guild of America when they refused to give himself and Miller "co-director" status speaks volumes for the film's precision in bringing the comic to life (then again, Rodriguez had already severed relations with the Writer's Guild, so take that story for what it's worth).
So what exactly is Sin City? Well, for starters, it's not even a real name. The setting of this film is actually Basin City, a haven for the type of people that make Travis Bickle pray for a real rain. Of the whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, and junkies that populate rain-soaked burgh, the worst are the ones in positions of authority (just like real life!). It wouldn't be unusual to, say, expect everyone to turn a blind eye to a Senator's son and his predilection for young meat. Or for the cops to allow prostitutes to police their own trade in exchange for free entertainment at bachelor and retirement parties.
Basin City, at least from what we learn after watching stories about our three male leads, is full of the same flawed protagonists - grunters of hard-boiled pulp noir dialogue; protectors their femme fatale of choice - as you'd find in a Raymond Chandler novel. Marv (Mickey Rourke) will do anything to get his enormous mitts on the person responsible for killing the only woman (Jaime King) who made him feel good, even if it was only for one evening. Dwight (Clive Owen) gets in the middle of a fight between his skirt (Brittany Murphy) and her old squeeze (Benicio Del Toro), accidentally starting and trying to intervene in a turf battle concerning a band of hookers and an undercover cop who can't take no for an answer. Retiring cop John Hartigan (Bruce Willis) risks life and limb to save young Nancy Callahan (Makenzie Vega) from the clutches of a pedophile (Nick Stahl), but then finds himself at the mercy of both a smelly yellow creature and the traffic-stopping adult version of little Nancy (Jessica Alba).
Like the graphic novels, each scene of Sin City is comprised of digitally-produced ink-black backgrounds, dark shadows and, if you're lucky, an occasional splash of light and/or color that practically makes certain characters glow like they've been eating Hi-Pro dog food their entire lives. The filmmakers use quick fades to progress from panel to panel of the story, and bookend the triptych of tales with a brief story of a hit-man/narrator (Josh Hartnett), providing the only content that wasn't found in Miller's The Hard Goodbye, The Big Fat Kill, or That Yellow Bastard. Find me a fan of those books who doesn't like this film version, and I'll show you a damn liar. Finally, Miller die-hards have something to crow about when it comes to movies (Daredevil, based on Miller's groundbreaking run in the early '80s, wasn't up to snuff; The Dark Knight, about an aging, vengeful Batman, will be a tough flick to greenlight). This is visually stunning stuff.
Sin City, with its deceptively deep cast, could have turned out to be a star-studded dud like Dick Tracy, or a digitally-created yawner like Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Thankfully, Rodriguez knew better than to stray from what is fricking fantastic source material. The dialogue is practically all intact, and the shots are framed exactly the way Miller drew them a decade ago. Don't buy into the whole Pulp Fiction comparison, though. These three stories don't intertwine at all. They share a common setting or two, but that's it. And if you go expecting to be blown away by the scene shot by "special guest director" Quentin Tarantino, you'll be sorely disappointed. Since QT's trademark strengths are dialogue and camera movement - two things that can't be altered if you're trying maintain faithfulness to the comic - you won't even know what scene he's responsible for directing. It's just a dumb publicity stunt. Attention should be directed, instead, on Mickey Rourke, whose career could be resurrected by his turn as Marv.if only people could recognize him under all of the ugly prosthetics.
Since losing stride with 1998's The Faculty, Rodriguez - who was responsible for the direction, writing, photography, editing and music here - has quietly cranked out a film a year, averaging nearly $100 million with each release in domestic box office alone (The Adventures of Shark Boy & Lava Girl in 3-D, another guaranteed hit, is due in June). And that's saying nothing of the profitability of his pictures, since Rodriguez's budgets are usually less than the catering bill for King Arthur, even though his films are packed with much, much more action. Here's to hoping for a big opening weekend, and a quick deal to make the remaining novels into something equally rich, violent and entertaining.
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