In the form of a heartfelt missive (from my heart).
Dear Major Motion Picture Constantine,
I realize that you have taken Jamie Delano’s vision of John Constantine into a dark alley, brutalized him in some undisclosed way (possibly involving fifty dollars in quarters and a sock) and sent Keanu Reeves back out in his place—I get this. I am not a fool.
Why can I not stop loving you?
You’ve shamelessly bastardized all vestiges of the blond, British character who wears a pinstriped suit and looks like Sting in the movie Quadrophenia (who, let’s face it, looks just a touch like Billy Idol—point being, not like Keanu Reeves). And to top it off, you are easily half-an-hour too long, and you have an obligatory Scrappy Sidekick. And yet . . .
Is it because you know how to manipulate my absurd devotion to Judeo-Christian apocrypha? The attraction is surely more complex, because even in the area of demonology, you are not meticulous. You’re aware of how I feel about the mythic figure of Beelzebub, yet you choose to make some other cut-rate fiend ruler of the flies. You mock and spurn me at every opportunity. This has not, sadly, prevented me from watching you four times.
Perhaps it is one of your many peripheral attributes that accounts for my devotion. It is because, ironically, you made me realize that Gavin Rossdale is beautiful by insisting that he put a shirt on? Or perhaps, it is because Peter Stormare just keeps getting scarier as he ages. You know that I’m tragically fascinated by bodily harm, and there’s a lot of it in this movie, which by itself could go a long way toward explaining my affection.
But no. While all these things are admirable qualities, they are not the reason I keep coming back. Two words, dear MMP Constantine.
Yes, you have redeemed yourself by casting a woman in the role of an androgynous man, and that has made all the difference. Are you out on Blu-Ray yet?