There’s wrong, there’s wrong, and then there’s this

movie tripe

I’ve just rented Stray Dog, Akira Kurosawa’s masterful 1949 homage to American noir film. I did so because I feel compelled to rinse the taste of Sin City, which I saw this afternoon, from my mouth. Better Kurosawa than M&Ms.

I’m at a loss to describe how much I disliked Sin City. I would have disliked it more, I’d imagine, if not for the fact that I found the comics trite and soulless in their initial run, so I was prepared, to some degree. I’ll always owe Frank Miller for Batman: Year One, but this Sin City film is the perfect storm of Miller’s punch-line driven writing and the Rodriguez/Tarantino fetish for overlapping story arc. Yuk.

I’m big on suspended disbelief, so I can run with a 60-year-old man with angina getting shot seven or so times and surviving somehow. I had forgotten, however, the agonizing self-importance and jarring stupidity. Semi-spoiler warning: So, a completely corrupt senator wouldn’t be interested in killing a stripper who knows his dirty little secret, regardless if Hartigan is dead or alive? But hey, it makes for some tidy plot looping and ponderous self-sacrifice to gratify the 15-year-old martyr in all of us.

And don’t get me started on the ninja hookers. Hard to swallow when drawn on a comic page; even more embarrassing when depicted by actual, breathing human beings.

This one is destined to join the Kill Bill ranks of crappy films that are initially heralded by critics but quickly fade into the anonymity they deserve. For Sin City, not quick enough.

For those of you who are interested, here’s a look at how the film adapts Miller’s art in an almost storyboard model.