It’s been a while since I posted a film review here on the ol’ Web site. I got out of the habit when politics consumed me last fall, and I haven’t seen anything in the months since that was especially blog-worthy. Oh, I’ve seen some good films, but nothing that really stood out from the crowd, that worked me up, made me think, or inspired me to write. Nothing, that is, until Sin City…

Sin City is the most beautifully crafted film I’ve seen in a long time.

Sin City is also the ugliest film I’ve seen in a long time.

After two viewings and as many weeks of pondering, I still haven’t quite unraveled the central paradox of this fascinating, exhilarating, disturbing movie. The only definite thing I can say is that Sin City is destined to play alongside Heavy Metal and Rocky Horror at midnight screenings for years to come. Yes, kids, Bennion is pronouncing this thing an instant cult-classic.

But beyond that, what the heck is it?

In the simplest terms, Sin City is yet another movie based on a comic book (excuse me, graphic novel), but it’s got about as much in common with something like Spider-Man as a dog resembles a cow. While both of them have four legs, fur, and a tail, we’re talking two entirely different animals.

There are no superheroes in the Sin City books, which are the brainchild of one of the comic industry’s biggest guns, a writer named Frank Miller. There are only tough, morally ambiguous characters who do whatever they have to do to survive in a dank urban environment of depthless corruption. It’s a place right out of Heartland America’s worst nightmare, distilled from the familiar tropes of hardboiled detective novels and 1940s film noir movies into something that’s simultaneously familiar and horrifyingly dysfunctional. Sin City sort of looks like our world, but it’s populated almost entirely by hookers, gangsters, psychos, hitmen, and bad cops, and all the problems here are solved with violence.

(I should probably come clean at this point and admit that I have never actually read a Sin City comic. I am familiar with them by reputation, and I’ve flipped through enough issues to recognize the art style. That will become important momentarily.)

The Sin City film adapts three separate stories from the books. The first features Hartigan, the last honest cop in this hellhole of a city, trying to save an innocent girl from a very unpleasant fate. The second — and best — story follows Marv, a huge, misshapen man bent on avenging the murder of the only woman who ever showed him any kindness. And finally, the third tale is about Dwight, a man who, via a series of escalating misadventures, gets caught in the middle of an all-out war between the prostitutes who control the “Old Town” district of Sin City, and the gangsters and corrupt cops who want to subjugate them.

The three storylines share some connecting elements — notably a stripclub through which everyone in town seems to pass at some point — but they are essentially self-contained, with the only constant being the setting, overall tone and, of course, the film’s amazing visual style. That style is what people are going to remember about Sin City long after they’ve forgotten what the movie was actually about. It’s shot in black-and-white, just like a good, old-fashioned film noir ought to be, but the look has been spiced up with occasional flashes of color — a woman’s bright red dress, for example, or another character’s golden hair.

That’s only the foundation of the film’s unique look, however. On top of that, you’ve got director Robert Rodriguez of Spy Kids fame demonstrating in nearly every shot why he is one of the most effective action directors working today. His camera is constantly in motion, his angles are weirdly inventive, and his editing is lightning-quick, but unlike so many other recent actioners — which leave me wondering what the hell is going on even as I reach for my Dramamine — Rodriguez’s work is all perfectly comprehensible, viscerally thrilling, and stunningly effective.

Oddly, Rodriguez shares his directing credit with Frank Miller himself. I don’t know what Miller contributed but my guess is that he made sure the movie reproduced the most memorable artistic effects from the graphic novels. For example, Elijah Wood, in a very un-Frodo-like role, wears glasses that have the lenses digitally whited-out so you can’t see his eyes. It’s a very unsettling effect, and it precisely duplicates the way that character appeared in comic form.

In fact, I can’t remember another comic-book movie that tries so hard to capture the visual aesthetic of its source material. Warren Beatty’s 1990 version of Dick Tracy came close, but Sin City looks and feels as if the panels of the comic have magically started to move. That is the film’s greatest strength.

The film’s great weaknesses — which I assume are also replicated from the comics — are its unrelenting nihilism and over-the-top violence. Unlike most comic-derived films, Sin City is rated “R,” and deservedly so. There is more gunfire, bladework, blood spatter, amputation, decapitation, and castration in this movie than in the last five action films I’ve seen combined, not to mention the people who get dragged alongside cars, hanged, electrocuted, and beaten to literal pulps. (There’s also a fair amount of female nudity which, given how rarely we see it in movies these days, was actually somewhat refreshing.) The black-and-white cinematography as well as certain visual devices lifted from the comics take the edge off the gore and keep us from puking in our popcorn, but I personally found that the constant brutality grew tiresome after a while. In addition, the film is incredibly misogynistic — every adult woman we see in Sin City is a prostitute, a stripper, a promiscuous waitress, or a victim — and there’s nary a sign of hope anywhere. Things end badly in Sin City, even when they end well.

There is, however, a curious sense of justice in the film. Those characters who prey on the weak or doublecross their friends inevitably get their come-uppance, and our three protagonists — Marv, Hartigan, and Dwight — all display a sort of grim nobility even as they engage in acts of incredible ruthlessness. And that, possibly, is what makes all the killings and maimings bearable.

I need to quickly mention the film’s cast, which is eye-poppingly full of known stars in prominent roles: Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke, Clive Owen, Rosario Dawson, Jessica Alba, Brittany Murphy, Elijah Wood, Michael Clarke Duncan, Michael Madsen, Benecio Del Toro, Josh Hartnett, Rutger Hauer, the beautiful Carla Gugino (a favorite of R. Rodriguez), and even Alexis Bledel, who plays the daughter on TV’s Gilmore Girls. I especially liked Bruce Willis, one of our most underappreciated actors, who once again takes a familiar pulp-hero stereotype and makes him heartbreakingly human. I was less impressed with Clive Owen. He’s normally excellent, but here he delivers all his lines in a flat monotone that suggests he just didn’t quite know how to approach this material. (Maybe Brits have a problem with pulp — I noticed a similar problem with Jude Law in Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, where he was the only one who didn’t get the memo on playing his role “tongue-in-cheek.”) However, the real stand-out of Sin City is Mickey Rourke, rendered unrecognizable by the latex appliances that transformed him into Marv. There’s a real talent to effectively playing a role in such heavy make-up, and Rourke’s got it. He somehow breathes a soul into a character that no one would ever want to meet, but who we all recognize in ourselves. When Rourke’s Marv explains why a hooker he knew for only a single night is worth going on a vengeance rampage for, you’ll understand. You’ll even approve. You’ll share his sense of purpose, laugh at his grim jokes, and cry at his ultimate destiny. It’s a comeback role for a once-promising actor who’s been missing from the scene for a long time.

In the end, Sin City is probably a must-see for its visuals, its performances, and the crackling energy that surges through nearly every frame. But be warned: this movie is like the constant rain that washes the night-dark streets of the city — cold and harsh, pretty as a postcard as it nevertheless makes you shiver and long for a sunnier day.