It’s called Frank Miller’s Sin City: A Dame To Kill For. On October 4, 2013, its darkness will spray from digital projectors onto silver screens. The audience gasps. Boys put their arms around girls, ready for the backseat of their Grand Ams. Geeks squeeze into chairs too small, composing the fanboy raves and slams of a million online movie boards. Retirees wonder what the fuck is going on.
Mickey Rourke, his handsome visage now a tank shell that took too many hits, his voice a dying man gurgling gravel, signs on. He should, his last trip to Sin City giving his career a cosmic rejuvenation in the eyes of fans, a phoenix bursting out of straight to video ashes. The Devil couldn’t keep him away from the camera.
There’s another. Jessica Alba, the hottest of the Jessicas, the dark angel. Not much else to do, her house empty but for the piercing cries of the children. Death itself must be more enjoyable. Of course she comes back.
Robert Rodriguez ropes them in. Shooter, scorer, chopper, soul mate to Quentin, Austin’s rebel without a crew. Soon, he will start shooting, then scoring, then chopping. Miramax, Quick Draw Productions — they’re all in. Frank Miller, the modern Dante whose will built Sin City in with flames and black ink, is there, lusting for a chance to wipe The Spirit clean. It will happen. Then later, death, then Hell, hot and welcoming, all steel and asphalt.