This shy little guy wearing the white polyester shirt and the cheap slacks and the kind of necktie you can pick up for nothing on K Street -- this is John Woo? This is the creator of ultra-violent, rhapsodic gangster odes to Sam Peckinpah and Martin Scorsese? Shouldn't he be more like his movie characters: submerged in the shadows, black eyes flickering behind reflector glasses, hair glinting with brilliantine, a smoldering cigarette glued to his lips? Shouldn't there be a cocked gun on the hotel bed?
By Desson Howe
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