Courtesy of my new Netflix account, you are going to be getting recommendations for movies that are older than your brother's can-you-believe-they're-starting-second-grade-it-seems-like-they-were-just-born twins. I apologize, but there it is.
Sin City captivated me from beginning to end. Everything about this movie is pure candy: the selective use of primary colors in an otherwise black and white film, the blocky cut-out industrial background scapes, the over-the-top violence, and of course the hard women and harder men.
The dialogue would come off clichéd and hackneyed anywhere else, but in this noir confection, it's a pitch-perfect device.
Kill em' for me, Marv. Kill 'em good.
I won't let you down, Goldie.
Prior to watching Sin City, I knew nothing of Frank Miller's work. He produces graphic novels, which I am not supposed to call comic books, but watching Sin City was like tumbling through one pulpy page after another. Every frame is steeped in whiskey and smoke in the night, with plenty of stiletto heels and splatters of blood to mark the territory.
Whatever you do, get this one. Get it for the cars and the throaty voice-overs. Oh for Christ's sake, get it for the dames. You will not be able to take your eyes from the screen.
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