Grindhouse, 2007. Written and directed by Robert Rodriguez (Planet Terror) and Quentin Tarantino (Death Proof). With additional trailers written and directed by Rob Zombie, Eli Roth and Edgar Wright. Starring Rose McGowan, Kurt Russell, Freddy Rodriguez, Josh Brolin, Marley Shelton, Jeff Fahey, Naveen Andrews, Michael Biehn, Stacy Ferguson, Quentin Tarantino (unfortunately), Michael Parks, Rosario Dawson, Vanessa Ferlito, Jordan Ladd, Tracie Thoms, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, and the incredible Zoe Bell, as herself!
Now showing in theaters around town.
Where did Quentin Tarantino come from? Biographies say Tennessee, and as he ages he’s beginning to resemble one of those toothless, banjo-picking hillbillies from Deliverance. We see him in the years between movies hawking the less-then-quality work of friends in the industry (Hostel most notably), and know that the guy is a fiend for strange music and even stranger (and awful) movies. He is a product of a middle-America that loves its lowbrow but also a guy for whom the video store fed an enormous cinematic appetite which grew into a tremendous talent. The guy clearly devoured movies by Howard Hawks, Godard, Russ Meyer, and, of course, the grindhouse movies you can’t even get on DVD (though something tells me you will after today). I’m as yet unsure as to whether Tarantino’s Death Proof is a great only because it sits next to Robert Rodriguez’ Planet Terror, or a masterpiece on its own. What I do know is that, like Pulp Fiction before it, Death Proof in particular, and Grindhouse in general, is one hell of an experience, hilarious and disturbing, and totally, utterly surprising in spots. It’s the movie of the year.
I give you this very blurbable quote because Grindhouse really is such a creature: a film for both the arrogant cinephiles to devour (complaining all the while that it’s not showing at the Lagoon) and a night at the pictures for the doofus who adores 300.
If there’s a weakness in this funhouse ride, it’s Robert Rodriguez’ Planet Terror. Terror is both a true grindhouse film and a watered down version. It’s plot is deliciously ridiculous: a biological weapon is accidentally released (in the form of a green gas) that turns the townsfolk into flesh eating zombies. A group of misfits is caught in the center of this horde, including Cherry, a go-go dancer; El Wray, a mysterious tow-truck driver who has terrific aim; a husband and wife team of doctors, and the woman is a whiz at injections and is having a lesbian affair; and a bar-b-cue joint and its owner. There’s a pair of sexy twins as well, who don’t do a whole hell of a lot.
Their mission: to survive the onslaught and get away to Mexico, “with their backs to the sea” to protect themselves.
Rodriguez sets the pace for the twin-bill, with a goofy 70s synthesizer music (though the title track is awesome) that reminds one of the John Carpenter films, outrageous grainy close-ups, cheap drama, and oodles and oodles of heads exploding. But he seems to have forgotten grindhouse films so bereft of talent, and so unbelievably dull, that we can see that they function as mere distraction at the drive-in, something to catch from the corner of the eye between hits off the bong and struggling to free oneself from clothing. These films literally gave viewers jolts of tits and blood, and no one cared about the plot, for crying out loud. If anything, the baseness of the movie often prompted a person to light up or turn to sex.
So it is with Planet Terror. Rodriguez is really little more than a talented hack, his past films reflecting a charlatan’s love of buckets of cheap blood and little else (as opposed to those horrormeisters like Sam Raimi, who could really create tension to go with the blood). And I’m baffled about his fear of nudity. Planet Terror–and Sin City before it–has a dancer, but this dancer, while gyrating like crazy, keeps her top on throughout. You can bet that the grindhouse directors wouldn’t cotton to that.
The acting is all decent: no one is really bad, and no one in this movie stands out, either, which is just about right. Bruce Willis makes an appearance, and Rose McGowan as Cherry is pretty damn good. The rest hold their own.
Planet Terror is just good enough to get us to a brilliant intermission of retro ‘coming prevues’ ads and cheap trailers, all of which make you wish first, that we had seen any of these films instead of Planet Terror and secondly, that Terror would have been better as a trailer in front of Death Proof. The trailers are more violent, more sexy, more disturbing than what you’ve seen prior. And they do a swell job of getting you to the meat of the film.
For when Death Proof descends upon us, we’re in a totally different world. Tarantino has cheated here, leaving his friend, Robert, in the figurative dust. Gone are all the scratchy prints, the dumb music, bad close-ups, the melting film (though there’s still a reel missing–a joke that punctures both movies, and quite effectively). Death Proof is slick, trashy, and one of the best made movies in an already strong year.
The plot is deceptively simple: a maniacal stuntman stalks sexy young women, not individuals but groups of friends, and then kills them with his “death proof” car, an awesome black Dodge Charger with a cigar-smoking duck hood ornament. Only the driver’s immune from death.
And oh, boy, does Tarantino love his actors. This son of a bitch is my favorite for digging around and unearthing the old souls to inhabit his sicko films. Tarantino’s not going to troll for Oscar winners, but seems to be the type of man who watches movies and lunges after those small performances that just light up a screen. With Kurt Russell, he has again found a leading man who will take this film up and down its thrilling drive–Russell’s both sweet and menacing. And the women in the film! Our first group of gals are a bunch of fun-loving sexpots, a radio personality named Jungle Julia (Syndey Tamilia Poitier) and her pal Arlene (Vanessa Ferlito) and Shanna (Jordan Ladd). Julia and Arlene are the focus here, riffing on boyfriends and lap dances, twirling their hair and grinding to the music in the jukebox (and this being a Tarantino film there’s some great songs). Later, we get Abernathy (Rosario Dawson), Kim (Tracie Thoms) and Zoe Bell–playing herself. Zoe fucking rocks. A real-life stuntwoman, New Zealand hard ass, lover of muscle cars and dangerous living, she’s reason enough to see Death Proof. And where Rodriguez seems to avoid nudity and sex in his films like some sort of teenager scared of the female body (twice now we’ve seen go-go dancers that don’t go topless in his movies–a ridiculous concept for a grindhouse film, I might add), Tarantino loves and admires the women in his movies. They talk and are not talked down, are sexy and command that power, and here, are tough and wrecked and then tough and triumphant. No, there’s no nudity in a Tarantino film, but the sex just drips off the screen.
Death Proof could not be a grindhouse film: it deserves to be paid attention to, enjoyed and, if you’re interested, analyzed. It’s brilliantly directed, for starters, with Tarantino’s usual fluid camera and his great eye for talk–he outdoes Altman in his little scenes about nothing. Discussions over breakfast, of driving in a car, the movies the girls love, all flesh out character and subtly, so subtly set the tone for the rest of the film. Everything is a surprise in Death Proof, yet thanks to the talk, talk, talk, nothing is out of character.
There’s not enough gratuitous sex and violence to make Death Proof work at the drive-in frenzy that was a grindhouse. Both directors seem to think they’ve made something so unbelievably exploitative that the queasy should stay away. No, I could, and will, watch this film again and with people I know couldn’t handle the real thing. In Tarantino’s case, he has patience, and is willing to let his characters dictate the terms of Death Proof, as opposed to the visceral need for blood and boobs. Like some of the great action thrillers of the 70s, the violence takes its time before exploding, and there’s not much of it, just enough to raise the tension, release it, and then create a sense of menace for the rest of the movie.
Supposedly, they’re considering a sequel to Grindhouse, and I beg the filmmakers, especially Tarantino, to reconsider. This is lightning in a bottle you can be sure. But it makes me happy. Someday, perhaps, we’ll see Grindhouse in some old beat up drive-in, with the cars shaking, blue smoke rising from the lowered windows, and a number of future filmmakers gazing intently and lovingly at the big screen.
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