It did allow him to shoehorn a lot of self-conscious movie trickery into the mix, though, and he clearly thought that had given him enough rope to go forward with his Grindhouse concept (film jumps and assorted damage, including hairs, scratches etc). ![]() Kill Bill showed off Quentin’s express intent – proving he could do action – but had little else really going for it. Notably, all three feature McGraw, affiliating them in a scuzzy, seedy backwater of Tarantino fare that he’d probably engage with even more actively if he thought he could bring the viewers along in sufficient numbers.įrom Dusk Til Dawn was exactly as crappy as most Rodriguez movies (the only reason I can figure James Cameron wanted him for Alita: Battle Angel was that he didn’t want anyone on board – such as a Kathryn Bigelow – who might make a better movie than he could, the same for Terminator: Dark Fate). But this is much closer to the earlier From Dusk Til Dawn. The reveal that Mike had the evening’s gory pile up planned out in advance, spurning alcohol and covering his tracks, as offhandedly theorised by Michael Parks’ Earl McGraw, is the one point in the proceedings where Tarantino’s actually come up with something worthy of past talents, rather than draping himself in the flag of mutton dressed as mutton while hoping his audience comes along for the ride, the way he previously hoodwinked them with his previous exploitation riff, Kill Bill. Which may be entirely creepy, and Mike is easily the least engaging role Russell has taken – which doesn’t mean he’s unengaging in it, just that you wish it had been worthy of him – but it’s about the only time the picture really holds the attention. The first half consists of a protracted sequence showing Mike up to his insidious agenda. Because he wants it to be authentic, okay, with Bell flailing about all over a bonnet while pulling a “ship’s mast” stunt. ![]() I suppose you could use the get out that Zoë Bell is playing Zoë Bell, so this is her, but what, is Tarantino going to claim his intention was for Bell to be really bad at being herself?Įven the ostensible reason for having her there – the picture revolves around a “death proof” stunt car, of the type Stuntman Mike drives, that protects its driver’s seat no matter what, and thus Quentin figures, he can justify an actual stuntperson playing an actual stuntperson going up against another stuntperson, or some such suspect reasoning – crashes and burns in the face of Tarantino shooting the chase material in the most tedious and long-winded manner. Bell is shockingly bad, and no heavy lifting by her supporting cast is going to remedy that. Indeed, I’d say that, despite the presence of three more recognisable actors – Winstead, Dawson and Tracie Thoms – in the second half, they fare less well due to the encumbrance of Tarantino’s attempt to turn Zoë Bell into an actor and failing in a manner that, by comparison, makes his own acting career suddenly appear wholly viable. ![]() But he can do that, okay, because it’s self-aware… Yes… But then, Tarantino’s take suggests he’s not that self-conscious about the movie (“l et me take the structure of a slasher film and just do what I do”). In tandem with this, our auteur has a whale of a time fetishising the bodies of his stars, be it Mary Elizabeth Winstead’s and Vanessa Ferlito’s bottoms or Sydney Poitier’s legs. That part is accurate – and whether or not Tarantino might argue the banality is intentional, crap is no less crap for wanting it to be crap – but they’re really appreciably no worse than the second half’s quartet’s interactions. This revisit confirmed that assessment, although in fairness, I had written off the opening hour – kind of Tarantino’s equivalent of a Psycho misdirection, whereby, Janet Leigh style, the heroes you meet at the start aren’t the ones you end up with, but devoid of any accompanying quality – as a series of mind-numbingly banal conversations only truncated when Kurt Russell’s Stuntman Mike fashions a grisly demise for them all. ![]() My recollection of the movie was one of, as the phrase goes, hot garbage, hotter even than Robert Rodriquez’s companion piece Planet Terror (which, like it or not, seemed more invested in its messy tapestry it also helps that he’s a slipshod director of slipshod movies intentionally making a slipshod movie, so there aren’t any real joins to see). But that would be to spurn the exploitation genre affectation that has informed everything he’s put his name to since Kill Bill, to a greater or less extent, and also require him to admit that he was wrong, and you won’t find him doing that for anything bar My Best Friend’s Birthday. (SPOILERS) In a way, I’m slightly surprised Tarantino didn’t take the opportunity to disown Death Proof, to claim that, as part of Grindhouse, it was no more one of his ten-official-films-and-out than his Four Rooms segment.
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