To put it in black and white with spittle flecks of red at the busted edge of a bit lip: The man with a monster to die for the image of love? What greater destiny? What more foolish choice?
What makes him wrong? Only when the image speaks complicity in the lie he tells himself.
It’s a troubling dilemma, who is more the power and the snare? The man who, violent and unmoored stalks the broken pavement to prove his devotion to his idol? Or, the sculpted goddess who curses the throne for a desire to walk free from her pedastal?
Yes, Eva Green’s dark/light contours and this atrocity fueled send up on film noir and comic book lush, the sheer weight of the line that demarcates the lost souls attempts to devour their images of love makes this one of the breast films you’ll see this year.
There’s no answers in Sin City. True love? It is something more punishing and unkempt that takes place at home, where Dwight longs to go, in the Old Town, behind the luminous veil of intimate elsewhere, beyond the birth and death of the day. Dead soldiers know more than the man in the field, because they are empty. And only an empty vessel can feel the warmth of being filled. The hunter is doomed to have his back turned upon himself.
Also, boobs.
The Haunted Typewriter 