CMFH Film Reviews

2007, USA
Adventure, Comedy, Horror, Sci-Fi
Review by Deborah Dearth

When was the last time you wanted to view a movie with a bunch of strangers? In a film where sex sells and blood and guts gel, there’s no excuse not to enjoy the Grindhouse experience with others and laugh at the B-movie spectacle.

With the onslaught of home entertainment systems and overstuffed DVDs, filmmakers give little reason to attend a big screen showing of flicks. Directing buddies Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino return to the glory days of second-run drive-in double features and invite the audience to cheer on the nonstop mayhem. Despite the recent trend for horror films to scare the hell out of audiences, Grindhouse mashes together a grab bag of gore so far beyond the realm of reality that it entertains rather than disturbs.

Concession stand time is allowed during bogus trailers that split up the show. Rodriguez filmed a trailer for the illegal alien revenge flick Machete, which IMDb.com implies will become an actual spin-off. Eli Roth, guilty of contributing to the deluge of terror tales (Hostel, Cabin Fever), adds a trailer for a “Thanksgiving” gone terribly wrong. Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead) brings humor to his nonexistent “Don’t.” And TCM’s host for cult movies, Rob Zombie, presents the outrageously absurd “Werewolf Women of the S.S.”

After years of making homages to obscure, underground films, Tarantino and his band of merry exploiters finally achieve mimicry as a high art form. The film is often scratchy or discolored to imply age and overuse, and intriguing, flesh-filled scenes are missing or burn away when the audience is most aroused.

Tarantino and Rodriguez share a handful of actors, characters and missing legs, though their stories could not be more different. Rodriguez’ “Planet Terror” focuses on a zombie-inducing virus and the bubbly brethren addicted to the evil science behind it. This plot is set aside until after Rose McGowan finishes writhing in a go-go club, hinting that the testosterone heavy will not be disappointed. But no matter how pretty the corpses are, blood gushes in one measurement: buckets. Deliciously over the top, Rodriguez creates some of his best work in this outrageous film.

In the second feature, "Death Proof," king of pop culture references Tarantino has now resorted to referencing himself. Beyond a director’s trademark, such as his under-the-hood P.O.V. or Red Apple cigarettes, Tarantino not-so-subtly inserts such Pulp Fiction nods as foot massages and Big Kahuna Burgers. There’s a difference between inside jokes and bloated egos.

The film begins with Tarantino’s usual preference for wordy dialogue but devolves into an all-out action chick flick. Stuntwoman Zoe Bell -– who doubled the tough stuff for Uma in the Kill Bill films -– plays herself with a little ultraviolence. Kurt Russell tests her mettle as he attempts to run Zoe and her girlfriends off the road, but his character is stretched thin by the creation of two sequential stories containing cars of women. Apparently Tarantino could not decide which bevy of beauties to attack so he used them both, making his feature feel overextended and disjointed. Faithful editor Sally Menke should have left one of the stories on the cutting room floor.

Don’t let Tarantino’s overeager enthusiasm imply that this presentation is anything short of a fantastic cult extravaganza. Blood, guts, boobs and muscle cars compete against trash talk and one-liners. Seek out a theatre of folks who think that’s a good time, stir and enjoy.