2.5 stars. Rated R, for nudity, sexual content, brief drug use and relentless strong violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.5.14
Nine years is a long time to wait
for a sequel, particularly one with interlinked stories that weave in and
around the first film’s similarly interconnected narrative.
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| Johnny (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) roars into Sin City, a man on a mission. He's determined to out-play the local power-monger during a high-stakes poker game ... but, in fact, Johnny also has a lot more on his mind. What else would drive such a flashy young man to such suicidal behavior? |
My memory isn’t up to that
challenge. And I’d argue that a film’s potential success shouldn’t rest on a
viewer’s willingness to embark on deep research, in order to have a better idea
of what’s going on.
But that isn’t the only problem
with Sin City: A Dame to Kill For, once again adapted by comic book
impresario Frank Miller, from his macabre and über-cynical Sin City graphic
novel series. The far bigger flaw is that Miller obviously cherry-picked his
best stories for the first film, whereas this one is laden with leftovers and
sloppy seconds.
The result is a common cinematic
disease: all style and very little substance.
To be sure, Miller and gonzo
co-director Robert Rodriguez once again deliver the material with the seamy,
amped-up decadence and hard-bitten dialogue that will amuse fans of 1940s and
’50s film noir classics. The atmosphere oozes with scandal: the tough guys hard
as granite (literally); the dames, floozies and femme fatales straight out of
Hammett and Chandler ... assuming, of course, that their women would have pranced
about in cleavage-enhancing goth/punk corsets and garters. Or nothing at all.
But do bear in mind — as with the
first film — that only the actors are real here; the rest is CGI fabrication.
That means all the buildings and streets in (Ba)sin City, not to mention all
the action scenes, car chases and death-with-prejudice fist fights, maimings,
decapitations and defenestrations, not to mention samurai-style limb slicing
and arrows through eyeballs. No more “real” than the gladiator nonsense of 300 and its recent sequel.
As further befitting the
material’s noir sensibilities, this is a primarily black-and-white universe,
aside from occasional splashes of red (lipstick, blood) or full color, the
latter generally employed — with heavy irony — to suggest a character’s
innocence.
This is deliberate, of course;
the goal is to bring Miller’s savage comic book artwork and sensibilities to
the screen. Literally. He and Rodriguez once again succeed, catching the
feverish artistic vitality that crackles like heat lightning on every one of
Miller’s blasphemously violent pages.
But our potential engagement with
the results — as always is the case with live-action movies, as well — depends
upon engaging characters and compelling storylines.
And that’s where this sequel
falls flat.
Dame offers two new stories,
along with a short prologue — ample warning of grim things to come — and an
update on a fourth tale that began in the previous film. All of these
narratives wander in and out of Kadie’s infamous Club Pecos, where stripper
Nancy Callahan (Jessica Alba) entertains patrons nightly; all the stories also
feature the rock-hard, essentially indestructible Marv (Mickey Rourke) to one
degree or another.
The most involved tale gives this
film its subtitle, and gets much of its juice from Eva Green’s wickedly
provocative performance as Ava Lord, a flint-eyed high-society skank who
could’ve eaten Barbara Stanwyck’s Phyllis Dietrichson (1944’s Double
Indemnity) for breakfast. Seems that Ava has “history” with Dwight McCarthy,
whom we’ll recall was one of the kinda-sorta good guys in the first film.
A lot of folks may not realize
that it is the same character, since the first film’s Dwight was played by
Clive Owen, whereas Josh Brolin has taken over here. But yes; it’s the same
somewhat self-destructive guy who stays alive mostly due to the protective
embrace of Gail (Rosario Dawson) and her heavily armed prostitute allies in Sin
City’s even badder “Old Town” section.
(Hard to imagine that any portion
of this festering cesspool of a metropolis could be “worse” than the rest, but
that’s definitely true of Old Town.)
Ava has a problem, so she comes
to Dwight for help. He tries to ignore her, but can’t help falling into the
inky-black pool of her pleading gaze, just as he falls atop her naked body at
first opportunity. Seems that Ava’s wealthy but dissolute husband has rather
unusual ideas for “punishing” his wife, most of them involving sexual degradation
at the willing hands of their man-monster chauffeur, Manute (Dennis Haysbert).
Dwight, unable to stand the
images now popping into his head, reluctantly succumbs once again to Ava’s
charms ... knowing, that by doing so, he’s “letting the monster out.”
(For those who care to track such
things, this Dwight story actually takes place prior to his activities — dubbed
“The Big Fat Kill” — in the first film. Not that it really makes a difference
here.)
Elsewhere...
Cocky, ultra-slick gambler Johnny
(Joseph Gordon-Levitt) blasts into town in a 1960 Corvette convertible,
saunters into Kadie’s and demonstrates the degree to which Lady Luck adores
him, by hitting winners on the slot machines. This brings him to the attention
of Marcie (Julia Garner), a sweet young thing who probably doesn’t belong in
these surroundings, but, well, naïve girls can’t help flitting, moth-like,
around dangerous guys.
Johnny wants to get into the back
room’s high-stakes poker game, where the gleefully corrupt Senator Roark
(Powers Booth) fleeces all comers. But Johnny knows that he can out-play Roark,
never mind the obvious peril involved with merely attempting to one-up Sin
City’s most powerful politico, God forbid succeeding. Small wonder, then, that
this saga is dubbed “The Long, Bad Night.”
That title is accurate; Johnny’s
night subsequently becomes quite long. And horrific. But it’s also
incomprehensible, in terms of his motivation and behavior, not to mention the
outcome of his mano a mano poker challenge with Roark. Gordon-Levitt has
attitude to spare, and his voice-overs are among the film’s best, but Johnny’s
story is bewildering, unsatisfying and ultimately irritating.
It’s interesting to note that
Miller concocted Johnny and his saga specifically for this film, as opposed to
adapting previously published material. The difference shows.
Meanwhile...
Nancy hasn’t done well in the
aftermath of the first film’s most gripping story, “That Yellow Bastard,”
wherein veteran cop John Hartigan (Bruce Willis) repeatedly saved her life,
ultimately losing his own in the process. She loved Hartigan, and her soul
aches over his absence; her nightly, alcohol-fueled dance routines have become
increasingly erratic, and she has taken up target practice with a massive
pistol.
Her goal: to kill Roark,
instrument of Hartigan’s death, and father of the degenerate lunatic (the
“yellow bastard”) who previously menaced her. But she can’t do it; despite
ample opportunities (over months? years?), she hasn’t been able to pull the
trigger. And her own impotence is eating her alive, as is her anger at Hartigan
for having “abandoned” her.
The question, then, is what Nancy
will do next.
Willis actually does pop up, but
only as a shade; in an echo of his role in Sixth Sense, his departed spirit
watches, helplessly, as Nancy slides further and further into despair.
One could argue that Willis’
presence owes more to marquee value, and potential ticket sales, than narrative
necessity. That said, it’s good to see him again; he adds a nice note of
world-weary sadness to these proceedings.
The large cast clearly has a
great time, everybody doing a fine job with the essential decadence and icy
immorality. Green is by far the best, shamelessly employing her robustly carnal
body to maximum effect. She’s nasty. Booth is corruption personified, his feral
grin the stuff of nightmares; Haysbert’s Manute is just plain scary.
Rourke’s Marv is a force of
nature, elevated from the first film’s supporting role to full-blown starring prominence
here. Marv looks after his own, and he’s always willing to help. Dawson gets
plenty of juice from Gail’s feral leer, and Jamie Chung — taking over from the
first film’s Devon Aoki — cuts a deadly swath as the silent, sword-wielding
Miko, Gail’s most trusted lieutenant.
Christopher Meloni falls from
grace as an initially honorable cop soon trapped in Ava Lord’s web, and
Christopher Lloyd is a hoot as Kroenig, a doctor whose skills at “repairing”
folks depends on hands made steady by heroin (!). Stacy Keach is utterly unrecognized
as Wallenquist, Sin City’s grotesque mob boss; Jamie King plays twin prostitutes
Wendy and Goldie, the latter remembered as the dead body Marv finds in his bed,
in the first film’s “The Hard Goodbye.”
Unfortunately, this sequel
doesn’t give most of these characters enough narrative meat on which to skewer
their hard-boiled performances. Strange as it’ll sound, the villains here
aren’t as jaw-droppingly twisted and ghastly as the first film’s sickest
predators (memorably played by Nick Stahl and Elijah Wood); as a result, this
sequel’s fresh vengeance isn’t nearly as satisfying.
After awhile, the bullets,
arrows, sword slices and various other lethal skirmishes just, well, bleed
together.
Delivering tired, tedious, and
ultimately diminishing returns.
Too bad. Miller and Rodriguez
should have quit while they were ahead.
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