Sin City is awe-inspiring and wonderful. It's oddly clinical and detached, too, so that we're looking at violent events rather than experiencing them directly. As a result, the emotional impact isn't quite what it could have been. Maybe I've just been spoiled by Kill Bill. There's a scene when Clive Owen and Rosario Dawson, two actors on my short list of the most beautiful people in the world, embrace passionately on a rooftop in a hail of machine-gun fire while Owen's voiceover deadpans: The Valkyrie at my side is laughing with the pure bloodthirsty joy of the slaughter. If this were a film by Quentin Tarantino, I might have been moved and exhilarated by that image to the point of applause. Instead, I was merely appreciative, and somewhat tickled, as I settled back in my seat to await the next punchy moment.

I'm sorry for the faint praise. This is the best, most unmissable movie I've seen in a long time. I'm just suffering from nymphoepithumia: I miss the Bride.