Rarely is there a film whose title perfectly matches the end product as much as Ruben Fleischer's glamourous, pseudo-grindhouse flick . Replete with corny lines, horribly miscast actors, slick editing and cinematography, clichéd plot points, and immensely entertaining performances, Fleischer blasts an ultra-violent path for his film; foregoing any of the period piece aesthetic one might expect from a late 1940s set winter release starring the Oscar friendly Sean Penn and Ryan Gosling. In its place is a gloriously dumb neo-noir/shoot 'em up hybrid: A run-of-the-mill gansgsplotation film on a Pixie Stick sugar high. An excuse for Josh Brolin to borrow the grizzled detective persona for a little under two hours, a rare opportunity for comedic actress Emma Stone to play a femme fatale, and a showcase for Penn to obliterate the scenery as one of the most over-the-top villains in recent memory. It's the defibrillator shock which sends you reeling back into consciousness in the middle of the January/February dumping ground. Not a great film in terms of traditional quality, but it makes up for it with an unrelenting devotion to the gangster genre and a general feeling of madcap joy from all involved.