"She called me a dirty word." I can't remember why I watched Rian Johnson's Brick for the first time. It might have been a recommendation from my sister, or a friend. I do know, however, that the copy I own is a battered, used copy from Blockbuster, replete with a stack of price stickers and a tear in its disgustingly textured plastic cover. I got it at one of the many Blockbuster Going Out of Business Sales that I frequented, like a cinema vulture, to pick the bones. I would walk in with twenty dollars in my pocket, and come out with an armful of DVDs and BluRays. But I digress. What I do know is that Brick has become one of my favorite neo-noirs. It was bold and unique, while at the same time echoing the genre's past in loving and respectful ways. I tripped down a noir hole this weekend, and decided to revisit one of my favorite modern noirs in celebration. Also, the wife was out of the house, and I wouldn't get in trouble for rewatching a m...