Though artist and writer Frank Miller did turn Marvel’s Daredevil into a Catholic back in the 80’s, I sincerely doubt his comic book narratives (e.g. The Dark Knight Returns, Sin City tales like That Yellow Bastard, his work on Daredevil, etc.) are motivated by anything approaching O’Connor’s ardent religious impulse. Assuming they even stay through to the credits, a number of Christians are going to walk out of his and Robert Rodriguez’s Sin City (2005) feeling soiled by all the g-stringage, hyper-graphic violence, and ricocheting curses. They would probably have the same reaction to Miller’s gritty take on D.C.’s Batman or Robert Rodriguez’s slick El Mariachi trilogy. Lots o’ babes, bullets, and blood in both. Before we write off this uniquely collaborative effort as so much hip dreck, however, we should—if briefly—recognize its surprising acknowledgement of a certain ethical quality, a radiant heroic archetype the more visible because the film surrounds it with such darkness.

Sin City, that is, does not completely blur the lines between corruption and innocence, self-knowledge and ignorance. In its rush to pierce through that staid code which assigns mercy to heroes, virtue to heroines, and clarity of vision to both, it barrels right through its own internal, claustrophobically limited logic to something larger waiting patiently outside itself. Admittedly, the movie’s three tales do take place in a monochromatic world where killers and policemen alike walk in shadow, priests and cardinals ally themselves with criminals and cannibals, and gun-toting prostitutes carve out a safe-haven by killing any pimps stupid enough to enter their district. The film’s noirish sensibilities, however, bow to that deeply seated human need for a champion willing to sacrifice himself for others. No Christ-figures, the very imperfect and confused heroes in each of the film’s three stories nevertheless demonstrate a single-mindedness in their attempts to prevent or avenge injustice, in two cases losing their lives amidst efforts to protect the victimized.

In an era preoccupied with serialization and sequels, our heroes rarely die anymore. Programmers and audiences want them back for the next episode, the next exciting adventure. It’s a tribute to Miller and Rodriguez’s radicalism that, in addition to shocking our complacent sensibilities with the sordid, they disrupt our common assumptions about what constitutes heroic action. Their heroes live only to die. An audacious narrative choice, with distant echoes of eternity.