Posted: 04/08/2007

Grindhouse

(2007)

by Jason T. Hams

The indulgent oddity that is/are the two movies that make up ‘Grindhouse’ will prove to be a marvel of abstract film criticism: how does one review a knowing work of homage (née self-parody) to productions that thirty years ago were lambasted with sour reviews? This is not a pleasant age to be Andrew Sarris, and I personally cannot wait to see consensus, for I surely do not know how the tumbling dice will fall on ‘Grindhouse’, which I will say is a very good time. Just the very experience of sitting through these antiquated ads and trailers, and the fizzy scuzziness of these two features is indeed a damn good time, which is what R & T are going for. So, indeed ‘Grindhouse’ is a success and it should be noted that we need more dirty successes like ‘Grindhouse’. My colleagues may not be so kind, but ‘Black Snake Moan’—while far better than both movies—is the real Grindhouse deal.

So, in reviewing ‘Grindhouse’, I will take a look at our Furbie directors and take a moment to marvel that they never had to film to survive but once. It was a one-stop train-ride from Video Clerk to Director of the Millennium for Quentin Tarantino, and for Rodriguez he scrapped like few of his generation did to make ‘El Mariachi’ but since, his string of hits has been dependable and relatively safe. Rodriguez has his studio and Tarantino has his egomaniacal legacy, and ‘Grindhouse’ is one for their fans; for indeed, ‘Planet Terror’ and ‘Death Proof’ (by Rodriguez and Tarantino respectively, the two films that make up ‘Grindhouse’) are their new films, two features that are as “them” as anything they’ve ever made. So fall in line, fanboys.

Are they any good? Yes and no. My theory on ‘Grindhouse’ is that because Rodriguez and Tarantino struck is so big so, so good with their first features, that they never had time to make a FIRST feature, a sloppy movie of getting-with-it indulgence that they could look back on and shake their heads: “Were we ever that young?” Consequently, they never grew up. These two films are riddled with flaws and innovations that mark a first-time filmmaker, admittedly in Rodriguez’s case with a noticeably higher budget, and I would argue his is the stronger film. It finds the right notes of coinciding homage and parody, a little to strong on the latter in parts, but in my mind the strongest, most entertaining film the man has done since ‘El Mariachi’, or at least his entry in ‘Four Rooms’. A Zombie Virus is out there and only certain people are immune, among them Rose McGowan’s stripper Cherry, of instant machine gun-leg fame and of which does not slow the movie down with gimmickry as one would think. Freddy Rodriguez’s Man With A Past is played wonderfully gruff, with special attention to his big revelation scene as only a total asshole fanboy can do. Best of all is Bruce Willis with revolving door facial hair.

‘Planet Terror’ is not quite a genuine work and tends to slog near the end. It’s never less than amusing, but unlike the work of Romero or Cohen there’s nothing underneath it all, just a dull Government vs. The People Conspiracy that thankfully takes a backseat. The film is the film, and the only thing that doesn’t work in ‘Planet Terror’ is ironically enough the subsequent auteur Tarantino, whose cameo screeches the film to a halt. Instead of playing his motor-mouth image for knowing laughs, he plays them for unknowing laughs. In thinking he’s giving the people what they want (Yay! It’s Quentin!), he gives them what they don’t (Oh no! It’s Quentin talking for two consecutive scenes!), which is as clear a transition as I can find to move over to the monotony of ‘Death Proof’.

Quentin Tarantino holds a special place in my heart as one of the true repugnant fixtures in contemporary film, and yet the bastard has yet to make a bad film. Even ‘Kill Bill: Vol. 2’, which felt like even more of an imitation than his usual stock, has moments of brilliance that I don’t think the most ardent of detractors could discount. ‘Death Proof’ feels like an outstanding seventy minute feature blown out to ninety, and under the strain of the freedom that comes with being Quentin Tarantino, an A-List director who can do and certainly does do whatever he feels like, ‘Death Proof’ is more like a chore than a treat. It’s the first genuine work of self-parody from the director who is so clearly capable of more; I know this because it starts off grooving to such a funky beat, with Tarantino himself working the camera and following a parade of shoeless women make their way to a bar where they become stalked by Stuntman Mike, a psychotic stuntman for Lee Majors who has since been passed by in the fast track of life and can only get his jollies through roadside terror. Stuntman Mike is a gift to Kurt Russell, who both mines the role for as much humor as possible while never lapsing into parody. Russell has always been an A-List Bruce Campbell, and like Campbell he’s built a career on being in on the joke, and it’s a shame that Tarantino does not milk him for anything more substantial.

There is not a moment with Russell that isn’t a joy, and Tarantino has quite a few aces up his sleeve in this film that would be less evident were it not for the credits and a basic knowledge of who we’re seeing on the screen and who we’re not. I won’t be less oblique than that, but when Tarantino gets The Girls on the road the film turns into a feminist empowerment tale that would be a lot more enjoyable were the film not so bloated in both of its splinter tales. There is a car chase that is quite simply the best we are bound to see in years, as stuntwoman Zoe Bell, herself a stuntwoman for Uma Thurman in the ‘Kill Bill’ films, quite simply hangs on for her life on the edge of a car for a very prolonged period of time. This is an example of a Tarantino-geek out moment that works; what doesn’t, on the other hand, is a rehash of Tough Talk that he gives his actors in roundabout coffee table-fashion that screeches the film to a stop. Tarantino for all of his gab, has always been better at show than tell and rather than being asked to marvel at his dizzy wordplay, it just feels tired and labored to get to the point. When the point comes, it’s both outstanding of its own volition and refreshing to simply get there and it’s that second clause that strains the film. Tarantino will get credit for filling his film with “smart” women (which means, women who talk about as much inane bullshit as he does) but they never feel real or singular, so their pain or thirst for vengeance is rather empty. He’s a man so in love with every dance move he strikes that he forgets about the beginning and the end of the song.

Which finally brings us to those wonderful little trailers, of which Eli Roth’s has already struck up a major controversy. Quite simply it’s the best thing he’s ever done, and his ‘Thanksgiving’ trailer is in fine company with Rob Zombie’s ‘Werewolf Women of the SS’, Edgar Wright’s ‘Don’t’, and Rodgriguez’s ‘Machete’, the fizzy hilarity of all is in many ways more infectious and true to the Grindhouse spirit than either of these films. ‘Planet Terror’ isn’t about anything, and ‘Death Proof’ takes too long getting out the words, in a way that a Rob Zombie movie about, oh say, Werewolf Women of the SS would probably not.

One last note: woulda been nice to see some tits. Just sayin’. It falls upon the trailers to fill that quotient to fulfill one of the most joyous staples of being young and seeing a movie, and that’s pretty curious to me. We’re treated to a tame, boobless sex scene in ‘Death Planet’ and lots of talk in ‘Death Proof’ (cinema du Tarantino being fairly sexless) but really a fairly low boob count. Just woulda been nice.

Jason T. Hams is a film reviewer and filmmaker in Chicago.

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