I was more in love with the soundtrack to Alex Proyas’s 1994 version than I was that film. I’ve never read James O’Barr’s comic books. My investment in this franchise is low.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a director take beautiful things and twist them into such grotesque caricatures as Rupert Sanders. I wanted to dismiss the film as modern art—a definition I find tiresome and friable, like the crumbly bits that encircle a stale cookie—but I found myself with a poor taste in my mouth at the end of 102 minutes of blood-soaked angst. I turned to my wife and said, “That was disrespectful to the memory of Brandon Lee.”
Skarsgård’s leaky accent was as distracting as FKA Twigs’s teeth. But my opinion is crippled by this inexplicable growing hatred I have for all things modern. If I’d seen this movie when I was nineteen years old and had been born into a world full of social media-driven narcissism, would it have spoken to me more?
Whatever the case: the two main characters were physically flawless (assuming you’re into buck teeth) which was shocking as they were degenerate junkies. That was more unbelievable to me than the whole “reborn out of limbo to avenge true love’s death” thing.
2024.10.14
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