GRINDHOUSE PREMIERE IN LONDON
So last night, me and Ollie went to the English premiere of the Rodriguez/Tarantino double bill “Grindhouse” in Leicester Square (yeah yeah, the constituent parts were released months ago, but it’s never been shown in its entirety over here until now). “Shaun Of The Dead” director Edgar Wright introduced proceedings which was a nice touch, giving us a bit of background into the production, but he wisely kept his speech short and let the films do the talking.
First off, Death Proof,* which did nothing but reinforce my belief that it’d be so much better if Tarantino started writing screenplays again rather than simply masturbating over celluloid. I’m a fan of homages, references and directorial quirks as much the next nerd, but you shouldn’t try to construct a whole film out of them (although, admittedly, that hasn’t stopped Kevin Smith.) The first hour of Death Proof has this most self-indulgent of directors variously jerking off over feet (his perennial fetish), 60’s Northern Soul (thankfully, he hasn’t lost the touch for soundtracks) and himself (the amount of Pulp Fiction references shoehorned into the script is cringeworthy, and let’s not even mention his awful cameo.) His so-called “naturalistic dialogue” has been excised of the wit, intelligence and sparkle of his Pulp Fiction days, and replaced with pointless, banal inanity which adds nothing to the film except an extra 20 minutes of running time. It’s basically Kill Bill Part II with cars instead of swords, and just as interminable.
But, I can’t write Death Proof off completely, because like his previous film it does have its saving graces. Kurt Russell’s “Stuntman Mike” is a great villain; a washed-out daredevil who gets his kicks from killing attractive women via the medium of car-crashes, Cronenburg-style. But rather than going the obvious route and making him an unstoppable monster, he’s a pathetic, cowardly figure and far more interesting because of it. More importantly, the last reel almost makes up for the drudgery of the rest of the film, with QT suddenly remembering that real grindhouse films tended to be enjoyable. It stands as further proof that when QT ditches the dialogue and sticks to action, he’s still a decent, even exciting directorial talent and the film ends on a more satisfying note than one would have expected. Still, overall, it’s a pretty disappointing effort from a man who should, but doesn’t, learn from his mistakes.
Planet Terror, on the other hand, was a hoot from start to finish, brilliantly sending up the conventions of the B-movie zombie thriller- nonsensical plots, clichéd stock characters, guns and explosions galore and most importantly, a woman with a shotgun for a leg. Yes, a shotgun for a leg. Hell yeah. Some have complained that Planet Terror doesn’t stand up as a standalone film as well as Death Proof, and there’s something in that- it’s straight parody through-and-through- but it’s a far more entertaining and faithful stab at the genre than QT could muster. It’s half as verbose as Tarantino’s effort, but twice as effective; the dialogue cuts straight to the point rather than rambling aimlessly to satisfy the director’s slightly unsettling urge to prove he knows more about obscure 70’s pop-culture than ANYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD, EVER. Even the T&A element is better served by Rodriguez- whilst the constant OTT boob shots in Planet Terror are funny rather than titillating, there’s a certain leering quality to Tarantino’s film that makes it slightly uncomfortable to watch. If there’s one flaw with Planet Terror, it’s that the tone is sometimes very uneven (one scene involving a major character’s son is particularly jarring) but for sheer enjoyment value, Planet Terror sends Death Proof crashing and burning like the lumbering hulk it is.
And how could a discussion of Grindhouse be complete without mentioning the fake trailers shown during the intermission. Made by four different directors, each promo visibly bears the stamp of its creator- Eli Roth’s is shockingly, albeit comically nasty; Edgar Wright’s is quintessentially British; Rob Zombie’s is hilariously gothic and over-the-top. But it’s Rodriguez’s own “Machete” trailer that’s the star of the show; the most awesomely hardcore two minutes in the history of cinema. If only Death Proof had taken more cues from that, Grindhouse would have been an unmissable night of cinema. As it stands, it’s merely great.