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About half way through the movie, I realized I was... sad, experiencing something like loss. Then it hit me: the movie was taking the books away from me.
Sure, it was faithful, almost too much so. Panel to frame, one could see the obssessive attention to detail. This worked to my detriment, I think. Because it was so close, each time the camera would linger on a certain scene for just a second longer, it would summon up a beloved panel, evoking a near sameness that would link the two. I hadn't realized how much I loved the graphic novels until then, but I could feel them slipping away from me, being replaced by a pale, but faithful imitation. I remembered reading them, lingering on the lines, the negative space, tracing every visually hinted at aspect of noir condensation, reading the dialogue slowly, to savor the rhythmn, the sheer, brutal, stereotypical feel of it, and enjoying the hell out of them. I didn't devour the comics so much as wring every second of pleasure out of them as I could. But I couldn't do that with the movie; it moves at its own pace, flashing over things too quickly, making me numb from too much, too fast, and lessening the impact in my memory, and in my heart, of the originals.
Yes, it was a fine, if wholly unoriginal, piece of filmmaking, and yes, individual aspects of it were surprisingly good, but on the whole, it took something from me that I worry I won't be able to get back, and that makes me surprisingly sad.
Sure, it was faithful, almost too much so. Panel to frame, one could see the obssessive attention to detail. This worked to my detriment, I think. Because it was so close, each time the camera would linger on a certain scene for just a second longer, it would summon up a beloved panel, evoking a near sameness that would link the two. I hadn't realized how much I loved the graphic novels until then, but I could feel them slipping away from me, being replaced by a pale, but faithful imitation. I remembered reading them, lingering on the lines, the negative space, tracing every visually hinted at aspect of noir condensation, reading the dialogue slowly, to savor the rhythmn, the sheer, brutal, stereotypical feel of it, and enjoying the hell out of them. I didn't devour the comics so much as wring every second of pleasure out of them as I could. But I couldn't do that with the movie; it moves at its own pace, flashing over things too quickly, making me numb from too much, too fast, and lessening the impact in my memory, and in my heart, of the originals.
Yes, it was a fine, if wholly unoriginal, piece of filmmaking, and yes, individual aspects of it were surprisingly good, but on the whole, it took something from me that I worry I won't be able to get back, and that makes me surprisingly sad.
