OMFGrindhouseOMFG
[Side Note: I hate to say this (because my speculation on such things usually results in severe disappointment), but Rob Zombie's Halloween remake looks kind of intriguing; I'll see it just because Malcolm McDowell (A Clockwork Orange, If....) is playing Dr. Loomis.]
Alternative (and always amusing) Opinion: http://moviejuice.com/2007/grindhouse
"They just fucked with the wrong Mexican": The Cinematic Glory of Grindhouse
(Contains Possible Spoilers)
There is a certain postmodern irony to Grindhouse, a double feature (complete with fake trailers) that tries--and succeeds--in transplanting its audience into the squalid pit of a lowbrow, sleazy theater running Cannibal Holocaust or Ilsa: She-Wolf of the SS, circa 1979. Today's cineasts have seldom (if ever) had the opportunity to set foot in an actual 'grindhouse' cinema (myself included), and the notion of seeing "two movies for the price of one" is an all but obsolete concept in our multiplex-dictated culture. Like johns at a brothel, we all pay $8.50 for at least 85 minutes of a prefabricated entertainment fix before shambling out of the theater, either basking in the afterglow or complaining of blueballs. Grindhouse channels the boundless taboos of '70s exploitation and horror cinema in an uncanny way--directors Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino pull off the seemingly impossible: making these taboos marketable to the typical "mainstream" audience of today without blunting the edge one bit (some movies just push the envelope--Grindhouse rips it to shreds).
Horror, as of late, has been in a very dire state, with the most marketable (and thus overused) plots dealing in dismemberment and desaturated color palattes--films like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre remakes and Hostel have tried to resurrect the raw spirit of '70s horror, but have been unable to escape the pandering, post-millennial genre sensibility that exists now. Most directors who brag of actively pushing for the commercially-suicidal NC-17 rating are still contradictorily contented to succumb to an R for theaters with the more profitable Unrated DVD waiting in the wings--a rather complacent gesture in a genre notorious for its defiance of "playing it safe." Granted, Grindhouse carries an R rating (which shocks even me), but its content is some of the most twisted--and yes, obscene--shit you'll ever see in a mainstream film (and I mean that in the best possible way). In their respective segments, Rodriguez and Tarantino show there is a fine line between slathering gore across the screen and turning it into an elegant symphony of wonton yet calculated recklessness, turning the potentially disturbing into cause to cheer, applaud, and howl with laughter. In another bit of shocking postmodern irony, Grindhouse may be the first balls-to-the-wall mainstream exploitation item that still retains a sophisticated art-house appeal.
After the faux trailer for the Mexploitation Machete (starring Rodriguez regular Danny Trejo) that whets our appetite for what is to come, Grindhouse explodes into Planet Terror, Rodriguez's segment about a released chemical agent that infects the residents of a small town, turning everyone into boil-covered, flesh-eating zombies. Our group of colorfully offbeat survivors includes El Wray (Freddy Rodriguez), a tow-truck driving, smooth-talking badass; Cherry Darling (Rose McGowan), a go-go dancer with ambitions of becoming a stand-up comedian; the local proprietor of a barbeque stand (Jeff Fahey) and his sheriff brother (Michael Biehn), who commits the repeated cliche blunder of never allowing El Wray a firearm (which he eventually gets anyway). In all its scratched-print, reel-missing, blood-drenched glory, Rodriguez seems to be channeling John Carpenter's Escape from New York, crossed with the in-your-face gore of Lucio Fulci's Zombie (Tarantino, in a cameo, even gets the signature ocular trauma), but creates a frenetic, absurdist adventure all his own--I wore a big grin from start to finish.
Following Planet Terror are intermission trailers of surprising quality from Rob Zombie (Werewolf Women of the SS), Edgar Wright (the Hell House/Mario Bava-styled Don't) and Eli Roth (who turns Thanksgiving into the latest slasher-friendly holiday). Though I may not think much of this trio's feature film work, I have to echo the sentiments of other critics who say these pseudo-trailers alone are worth the price of admission, with Zombie's being arguably the most amusing.
Up until now, Grindhouse has been a thoroughly rousing feature, and one would suspect that Tarantino's segment, Death Proof, would be the crown jewel in its trash-cinema crown. The subversive method of his film, however, proves initially confounding, and left me wondering if the movie as a whole would derail as a result--gone was the scratched-up print quality and absurdist tone that marked Planet; what took over instead was Tarantino's usual penchant of a plot predicated on over-analytical dialog, and generally laid-back scene composition of characters engaging in said dialog. After a slow introduction of some incredibly obnoxious characters (who all--thankfully--meet a satisfying demise) and the genuinely disturbing death of a relative innocent (McGowan again, in a blonde wig), the story settles in with four free-spirited girls working within the Hollywood system who run afoul of Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell), a scar-faced psycho who turns his car into a souped-up, "death proof" machine. While the rhythmic dialog and moseyed pace takes some time to adjust to (especially after the rapid-fire Planet Terror), Death Proof gradually increases its intensity in a slow burn that eventually culminates in an extended, incredibly thrilling car chase. The young actresses are engaging heroines, and Russell shines as the villain (though his presence is a bit random in the narrative); instead of aping Rodriguez's style verbatim, Tarantino stays committed to his own method of storytelling, wallowing in unapologetic slasher-flick misogyny and car-chase thrills.
Overall, Grindhouse is 3 hours of cinematic glory whose experience will not be equaled anytime in the near future. While its lenghty running time and taboo subject matter will adversely affect box office, it is a film that--true to its title--will be ideally experienced (and not just seen) in the confines of a theater, with an audience who may not be in on the joke initially, but certainly will be as the film progresses. For me, it provided a rush of movie-going excitement I haven't felt since watching Dawn of the Dead late one night when I was twelve.
8.5 out of 10
Alternative (and always amusing) Opinion: http://moviejuice.com/2007/grindhouse
"They just fucked with the wrong Mexican": The Cinematic Glory of Grindhouse
(Contains Possible Spoilers)
There is a certain postmodern irony to Grindhouse, a double feature (complete with fake trailers) that tries--and succeeds--in transplanting its audience into the squalid pit of a lowbrow, sleazy theater running Cannibal Holocaust or Ilsa: She-Wolf of the SS, circa 1979. Today's cineasts have seldom (if ever) had the opportunity to set foot in an actual 'grindhouse' cinema (myself included), and the notion of seeing "two movies for the price of one" is an all but obsolete concept in our multiplex-dictated culture. Like johns at a brothel, we all pay $8.50 for at least 85 minutes of a prefabricated entertainment fix before shambling out of the theater, either basking in the afterglow or complaining of blueballs. Grindhouse channels the boundless taboos of '70s exploitation and horror cinema in an uncanny way--directors Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino pull off the seemingly impossible: making these taboos marketable to the typical "mainstream" audience of today without blunting the edge one bit (some movies just push the envelope--Grindhouse rips it to shreds).
Horror, as of late, has been in a very dire state, with the most marketable (and thus overused) plots dealing in dismemberment and desaturated color palattes--films like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre remakes and Hostel have tried to resurrect the raw spirit of '70s horror, but have been unable to escape the pandering, post-millennial genre sensibility that exists now. Most directors who brag of actively pushing for the commercially-suicidal NC-17 rating are still contradictorily contented to succumb to an R for theaters with the more profitable Unrated DVD waiting in the wings--a rather complacent gesture in a genre notorious for its defiance of "playing it safe." Granted, Grindhouse carries an R rating (which shocks even me), but its content is some of the most twisted--and yes, obscene--shit you'll ever see in a mainstream film (and I mean that in the best possible way). In their respective segments, Rodriguez and Tarantino show there is a fine line between slathering gore across the screen and turning it into an elegant symphony of wonton yet calculated recklessness, turning the potentially disturbing into cause to cheer, applaud, and howl with laughter. In another bit of shocking postmodern irony, Grindhouse may be the first balls-to-the-wall mainstream exploitation item that still retains a sophisticated art-house appeal.
After the faux trailer for the Mexploitation Machete (starring Rodriguez regular Danny Trejo) that whets our appetite for what is to come, Grindhouse explodes into Planet Terror, Rodriguez's segment about a released chemical agent that infects the residents of a small town, turning everyone into boil-covered, flesh-eating zombies. Our group of colorfully offbeat survivors includes El Wray (Freddy Rodriguez), a tow-truck driving, smooth-talking badass; Cherry Darling (Rose McGowan), a go-go dancer with ambitions of becoming a stand-up comedian; the local proprietor of a barbeque stand (Jeff Fahey) and his sheriff brother (Michael Biehn), who commits the repeated cliche blunder of never allowing El Wray a firearm (which he eventually gets anyway). In all its scratched-print, reel-missing, blood-drenched glory, Rodriguez seems to be channeling John Carpenter's Escape from New York, crossed with the in-your-face gore of Lucio Fulci's Zombie (Tarantino, in a cameo, even gets the signature ocular trauma), but creates a frenetic, absurdist adventure all his own--I wore a big grin from start to finish.
Following Planet Terror are intermission trailers of surprising quality from Rob Zombie (Werewolf Women of the SS), Edgar Wright (the Hell House/Mario Bava-styled Don't) and Eli Roth (who turns Thanksgiving into the latest slasher-friendly holiday). Though I may not think much of this trio's feature film work, I have to echo the sentiments of other critics who say these pseudo-trailers alone are worth the price of admission, with Zombie's being arguably the most amusing.
Up until now, Grindhouse has been a thoroughly rousing feature, and one would suspect that Tarantino's segment, Death Proof, would be the crown jewel in its trash-cinema crown. The subversive method of his film, however, proves initially confounding, and left me wondering if the movie as a whole would derail as a result--gone was the scratched-up print quality and absurdist tone that marked Planet; what took over instead was Tarantino's usual penchant of a plot predicated on over-analytical dialog, and generally laid-back scene composition of characters engaging in said dialog. After a slow introduction of some incredibly obnoxious characters (who all--thankfully--meet a satisfying demise) and the genuinely disturbing death of a relative innocent (McGowan again, in a blonde wig), the story settles in with four free-spirited girls working within the Hollywood system who run afoul of Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell), a scar-faced psycho who turns his car into a souped-up, "death proof" machine. While the rhythmic dialog and moseyed pace takes some time to adjust to (especially after the rapid-fire Planet Terror), Death Proof gradually increases its intensity in a slow burn that eventually culminates in an extended, incredibly thrilling car chase. The young actresses are engaging heroines, and Russell shines as the villain (though his presence is a bit random in the narrative); instead of aping Rodriguez's style verbatim, Tarantino stays committed to his own method of storytelling, wallowing in unapologetic slasher-flick misogyny and car-chase thrills.
Overall, Grindhouse is 3 hours of cinematic glory whose experience will not be equaled anytime in the near future. While its lenghty running time and taboo subject matter will adversely affect box office, it is a film that--true to its title--will be ideally experienced (and not just seen) in the confines of a theater, with an audience who may not be in on the joke initially, but certainly will be as the film progresses. For me, it provided a rush of movie-going excitement I haven't felt since watching Dawn of the Dead late one night when I was twelve.
8.5 out of 10