It was a gray day. The theater was mostly empty except for a few desperate loners like me anxiously looking for our noir fix. And after twenty minutes of whoring itself out, the screen got down to business.
Sin City starts like a zebra with a sunburn; black and white and gloriously red all over. The opening scene that sold Miller calls to me, begging me to love it. I caress it with my eyes as I settle in with my soda.
For the next 126 minutes Sin City spills its guts. The story’s got more twists and turns than a pretzel having a bad night’s sleep, and I love it.
Cops with good hearts and bad tickers, leggy dames that’d just as soon kill you as love you, and a yellow bastard with more than one weapon in his stinking dirty trousers. The whole enchilada in beautiful black and white.
If I could kiss a movie I would have planted a hard wet one right on Sin City, but when it was done I just walked out into a hard rain, alone. Like I said, it was a gray day.