The Male Sex In Sin City
Minxiu: I’m surprised you liked Sin City, considering how you hated Batman.
I’m not surprised. The premises of the two movies are worlds apart. So is the characterisation. Batman is about this whiny boy-man all too consumed by searing doubt, wretched guilt and annoying self-centredness. A man like this reads only trouble and heartbreak for the woman stupid enough to play the roles of victim, counselor and advisor accordingly to feed balm to the imagined hurt. There is no way a man like this can be strong mentally and emotionally. He will only handicap the woman unfortunate enough to fall for the “ I-am-so-sensitive” shit. And no, no, never the lover, because such a man is too obsessed with himself and his own to feel anything real of magnitude and significance, and sex can’t be too earth-shattering or fulfilling either because of his inherent insecurities and acute self-consciousness of perceived inadequacies. Unless the money makes all the difference.
Anyhow, as a result of assiduously adhering to the textual characterisation, the movie, which is about the humble beginnings of Batman and the very intimate process of transition, ends up faulting itself by being too truthful, and lost me forever.
I am probably projecting my own preferences (oh I am, I am) but it is understandable. For I’m so tired of the superhero who is also insanely human, has his little irritating foilbles and bothersome emotional issues with his soft side. Give me a real macho man who I can count on in life and death, and who I can have absolute trust and faith in. Spiderman, Superman, Mr Incredible, none of them make the cut. I want the simple, straightforward and base – chuck the mask and costume. Plain tough, plain rough and play hardball will do very fine, thank you. No mind games that will clutter and confuse, please.
And so Sin City, that’s the wholly different story. I love the compelling characterization steeped in gritty film noir tradition. The eerily destructive but oh-so-seductive raw masculinity pouring out from every pixel and pore, is accentuated by black and white only-s, with the occasional indulgent splashes of red-s, gold-s and blue-s to contrast against the stark surliness and grimness that is the men (well, Nick Stahl lost it, so he’s yellow, in The Yellow Bastard, so not quite the man, quite the eunuch). Darkly pensive stories narrated by the very weathered, mature, gruff and low vocals, the voiceovers won me over immediately (and completely), sending delicious shivers up and down (and made me, the word snob, forget how cheesy the lines really are – I just think it’s so cool the way they are sprouting them, that I would actually die from orgasm-inducing narration).
The testosterone overloaded male leads are gorgeously and perfectly cast (yes, I give fuck about Christian Bale). Smouldering Clive Owen has me eating out of his hand already with his charming turn in Closer. Bruce Willis is a bit too old but I’m okay with him in general. But it is the Mickey Rourke who blows me away, whom I have never noticed prior to this hero (not that I know how he actually looks like, I heard his face is buried under a Klingon-like face prosthetic, which is a pity ‘cos I do find the thuggish look he sports in the movie very attractive, pity ain’t his real face, pity my misplaced affections) who just won’t die.
Indestructible – that’s what a man should be (I do find some stereotypes particularly appealing. If I have to be sexist to find them sexy, so be it). Despite being thrillingly tormented, the sinewy, veiny males leads never once falter or hesitate in their desire to protect or seek revenge for their women. Sin City is about love stories amidst the violence, the rot and the darkness in a fractured world ( Women are always angels here – they only moonlight as sluts, whores or strippers, and the men seek them for their redemption) and I have a weakness for love stories, like it is with pumped up, beefy physiques, even if it baffles me why it doesn't quite spill over to real life.
As an aside though, I would love to be in Gail’s position and make those flattering, trusting remarks about Dwight. When her enemies told her it’s all lost, finished, gone, she declared her belief in her lover, that he’ll come back for her and make it right again, and she was not wrong. Make that I’ll love to make such remarks about someone someday. Someone harshly hunky in the signature bold and tyrannical style I so worship.
And so I am a sucker for the people and plot already. The style was flawlessly executed, thus the throbbing visceral ache to see the panel by panel homage unfold in the the most breath-taking manner on the big screen. Jessica Alba is the misfit if I had to nitpick. She is overdressed as her stripper character. Seriously, she just pole dances, and it ain’t even sexy. So it was odd in the context of the whole movie, in which women are either scantily clad in SM wear or nude all the time. Maybe she refuses to strip, which is really an exemplary example of how refusal to do a naked turn can spoil a movie. Now she'll go down in memory as the strange stripper who did not strip.
And special mention must be made of Elijah Wood: even he is manly and intense, for once, thanks to the movie. He is brilliantly chilling, a Harry Potter lookalike gone rabbit (not rabid) mad.
I’m not surprised. The premises of the two movies are worlds apart. So is the characterisation. Batman is about this whiny boy-man all too consumed by searing doubt, wretched guilt and annoying self-centredness. A man like this reads only trouble and heartbreak for the woman stupid enough to play the roles of victim, counselor and advisor accordingly to feed balm to the imagined hurt. There is no way a man like this can be strong mentally and emotionally. He will only handicap the woman unfortunate enough to fall for the “ I-am-so-sensitive” shit. And no, no, never the lover, because such a man is too obsessed with himself and his own to feel anything real of magnitude and significance, and sex can’t be too earth-shattering or fulfilling either because of his inherent insecurities and acute self-consciousness of perceived inadequacies. Unless the money makes all the difference.
Anyhow, as a result of assiduously adhering to the textual characterisation, the movie, which is about the humble beginnings of Batman and the very intimate process of transition, ends up faulting itself by being too truthful, and lost me forever.
I am probably projecting my own preferences (oh I am, I am) but it is understandable. For I’m so tired of the superhero who is also insanely human, has his little irritating foilbles and bothersome emotional issues with his soft side. Give me a real macho man who I can count on in life and death, and who I can have absolute trust and faith in. Spiderman, Superman, Mr Incredible, none of them make the cut. I want the simple, straightforward and base – chuck the mask and costume. Plain tough, plain rough and play hardball will do very fine, thank you. No mind games that will clutter and confuse, please.
And so Sin City, that’s the wholly different story. I love the compelling characterization steeped in gritty film noir tradition. The eerily destructive but oh-so-seductive raw masculinity pouring out from every pixel and pore, is accentuated by black and white only-s, with the occasional indulgent splashes of red-s, gold-s and blue-s to contrast against the stark surliness and grimness that is the men (well, Nick Stahl lost it, so he’s yellow, in The Yellow Bastard, so not quite the man, quite the eunuch). Darkly pensive stories narrated by the very weathered, mature, gruff and low vocals, the voiceovers won me over immediately (and completely), sending delicious shivers up and down (and made me, the word snob, forget how cheesy the lines really are – I just think it’s so cool the way they are sprouting them, that I would actually die from orgasm-inducing narration).
The testosterone overloaded male leads are gorgeously and perfectly cast (yes, I give fuck about Christian Bale). Smouldering Clive Owen has me eating out of his hand already with his charming turn in Closer. Bruce Willis is a bit too old but I’m okay with him in general. But it is the Mickey Rourke who blows me away, whom I have never noticed prior to this hero (not that I know how he actually looks like, I heard his face is buried under a Klingon-like face prosthetic, which is a pity ‘cos I do find the thuggish look he sports in the movie very attractive, pity ain’t his real face, pity my misplaced affections) who just won’t die.
Indestructible – that’s what a man should be (I do find some stereotypes particularly appealing. If I have to be sexist to find them sexy, so be it). Despite being thrillingly tormented, the sinewy, veiny males leads never once falter or hesitate in their desire to protect or seek revenge for their women. Sin City is about love stories amidst the violence, the rot and the darkness in a fractured world ( Women are always angels here – they only moonlight as sluts, whores or strippers, and the men seek them for their redemption) and I have a weakness for love stories, like it is with pumped up, beefy physiques, even if it baffles me why it doesn't quite spill over to real life.
As an aside though, I would love to be in Gail’s position and make those flattering, trusting remarks about Dwight. When her enemies told her it’s all lost, finished, gone, she declared her belief in her lover, that he’ll come back for her and make it right again, and she was not wrong. Make that I’ll love to make such remarks about someone someday. Someone harshly hunky in the signature bold and tyrannical style I so worship.
And so I am a sucker for the people and plot already. The style was flawlessly executed, thus the throbbing visceral ache to see the panel by panel homage unfold in the the most breath-taking manner on the big screen. Jessica Alba is the misfit if I had to nitpick. She is overdressed as her stripper character. Seriously, she just pole dances, and it ain’t even sexy. So it was odd in the context of the whole movie, in which women are either scantily clad in SM wear or nude all the time. Maybe she refuses to strip, which is really an exemplary example of how refusal to do a naked turn can spoil a movie. Now she'll go down in memory as the strange stripper who did not strip.
And special mention must be made of Elijah Wood: even he is manly and intense, for once, thanks to the movie. He is brilliantly chilling, a Harry Potter lookalike gone rabbit (not rabid) mad.
1 Comments:
elijah wood, manly and intense? no wow hard to imagine after too many turns as a hobbit. i suppose the big dumpy feet are gone. but does he still have his little woffly nose tho? *she askes excitedly*
ruth
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