Grindhouse
Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino’s “Grindhouse” flies in the face of any conventional wisdom or level of film criticism. I mean, what can any self-respecting critic say when faced with A-list filmmakers who set out to make films that are intentionally bad and indefensible on any levels of art? Well, you can praise Rodriguez and Tarantino for their uncanny ability to pull a fast one on critics and audiences, and making a damn fun night at the movies for those of us game enough for the experience. It’s also a fast one on Hollywood, making B-movies on small budgets- with stars (both big and small) attached- that are infinitely more fun than most of the B-movies (dressed up with A budgets and stars), pointing up just how cheesy those movies are by embracing the schlocky qualities that have become standard-issue in many Hollywood blockbusters, and not being afraid to follow them to a “t.” You can practically hear Rodriguez and Tarantino- friends since their earliest days of filmmaking (both from the Sundance class of ’92 with “El Mariachi” and “Reservoir Dogs,” respectively) and collaborators for almost as long (Tarantino directed a scene of Rodriguez’s “Sin City,” had a cameo in his “Desparado,” and costarred in his “From Dusk Till Dawn,” Rodriguez wrote the score for Q.T.’s “Kill Bill: Vol. 2” and directed “From Dusk Till Dawn” from Tarantino’s script, and both wrote and directed segments from the dreadful “Four Rooms”)- laughing in their editing suite as they realize what they’ve gotten away with in being able to make this film (with the blessing of their long-time financiers Bob and Harvey Weinstein at Dimension).
Well, actually, they made two films (both about 70-80 minutes in length, but will surely be available in the extended versions their overseas releases will be in on the DVD), commisioned some friends to make some fake trailers, found some old announcement reels from the ’60s and ’70s, scratched up the films and excluded reels of their films (sadly for the guys in the audience, at the most unfortunate times), and made a night at the movies like the ones they grew up with, sitting in a darkened- usually dillapitated- theatre where the movies were turbo-charged exercises in violence, sex, and overall cinematic cheese with little in the way of character and story and much in the way of cheap thrills and exploitive action. Well, OK, not all of them were- according to Ain’t It Cool News’ Harry Knowles (who knows more about the “classic” grindhouse experience than I do) in his review of “Grindhouse”- but the ones Tarantino (who first dropped the film type as an influence on his “Kill Bill” epic) and Rodriguez (whose “From Dusk Till Dawn” with Quentin was very much in the tradition) are paying homage to in their experiment certainly were. None of the ordinary criticisms can work with “Grindhouse”; that said, one thing I can say that can be said about other films is this- you’re in for one Hell of a ride…whether you take that as a good thing or not.
First up, after a quick trailer by Rodriguez for the non-existent film “Machete” with regular star Danny Trejo, Rodriguez serves up “Planet Terror,” a schlock horror film where rogue military types (led by an unbilled Bruce Willis, star of Rodriguez’s “Sin City” and Tarantino’s “Pulp Fiction”) unleash a toxin that turns anyone who breathes it in into zombies, whose flesh-eating tendencies can also cause an outbreak in victims. Fortunately, a ragtag band of citizens- none terribly reputable- teams up to try and stop them, led by rugged anti-hero Wray (Freddy Rodriguez, no relation to the director) and go-go pole dancer Cherry Darlin’ (Rose McGowan, sensational- both as exploitation eye candy (we first see her on stage during the opening credits) and as ass-kicking action heroine- in an archetypal role that reminds you of how even the least-respected performers can turn on the star power when a major talent gives them an opportunity- remember her in Wes Craven’s “Scream?”), who’ll lose her leg- and replace it with a machine gun (a nod to “Evil Dead II” perhaps?)- over the course of the film, turning her into a hot-blooded object of lust and lethality before the film hits its’ final frames.
They aren’t the only ones on the zombie warpath, though; there’s the local sheriff (played by James Cameron regular Michael Biehn) who’s distrustful of Wray; a local doctor (Marley Shelton) who’s a little too into her work (she has a lot of syringes handy, both for work and more personal uses), looking to runoff with her lover (Stacy Ferguson, aka Fergie), but will find her use of her hands cramped by her jealous, psychotic doctor husband (Josh Brolin); a deputy who loses his finger- but not his wedding ring- to a zombie bite (makeup legend Tom Savini, who worked with Romero on his “Dead” films); and a pair of crazy babysitting twins, among others, makeup the ragtag band of zombie fighters. I could say more, but that would take the fun out of watching Rodriguez- who acts as his own cinematographer, co-editor, composer, and visual effects supervisor (though he gives the makeup effects over to the great Greg Nicotero (“Evil Dead II,” “Kill Bill”) and the boys at KNB)- follow conventional wisdom for such a film through to the end while surprising you with how much damn fun you’re having in watching him wallow in the excesses of excessive cinema, and realize that- in considering his previous efforts like “Desparado,” “The Faculty,” “From Dusk Till Dawn,” and “Once Upon a Time in Mexico”- he’s been following the path of the low-budget exploitation director his entire career, “Spy Kids” forays into family filmmaking notwithstanding. Don’t try to lump “Sin City” in that group, though; it looks like high art compared to the legacy that’s led him to “Planet Terror.” Grade for “Planet Terror”- A+ (but don’t take that to mean it’ll be on anyone’s 10-best list…I’m grading on an inflated curve)
But whereas Rodriguez’s career comes more into focus with his entry in the “Grindhouse” experience, after the next three trailers- Rob Zombie’s “Werewolf Women of the SS” (with the most inspired and insane casting decision for any of the non-movies promoted here), Edgar (“Shaun of the Dead”) Wright’s “Don’t” (a sendup to horror conventions as hilarious as it is hideous), and Eli (“Hostel”) Roth’s “Thanksgiving” (by far the most unsettling- and yet, perversly watchable- trailer of the bunch)- Tarantino’s gets thrown off-balance slightly with “Death Proof.” Nothing in Q.T.’s previous films- not the shock-to-the-system storytelling in his debut film (“Reservoirs Dogs”), not the rock-n-roll high-wire act of his phenomenon-generating followup (“Pulp Fiction”), not the quietly confident auteur behind the crime jewel “Jackie Brown” (which’s aged like fine wine apart from its’ roots as a nod to both crime master Elmore Leonard and blaxploitation staple/”Jackie Brown” star Pam Grier), and not the fanboy indulgences that led to a pop genre-splice masterpiece spliced in two itself for theatrical release (his “Kill Bill” opus)- prepares you for the sparse elements he brings to “Death Proof.” For “Proof,” his formula of dialogue-driven cinema with bursts of action to add the puctuations finds itself turned on its’ ear.
But for longtime fans, this must be remembered- Tarantino is a master caster, and his storytelling instincts are rarely off their mark, and both serve him well here. Start with Kurt Russell, taking a break from safe “hero” roles (in films as diverse as “Miracle” and “Poseidon”) to play and out-and-out villain in Stuntman Mike, whose star as a stuntman has faded (none of the pretty young things at the bar we meet him in know his work), but whose lust for danger is alive and well as he takes a pretty blonde from the bar (McGowan, who has a fun rapport with Russell) on a death ride in his muscle car (tricked out- as a stuntmans’ would be- to be “death proof”) before running down a trio of woman (Jordan Ladd, Vanessa Ferlito, and Sydney Poitier- yes, the daughter of the acting legend of the same name- as radio personality Jungle Julia) he meets up with at the same bar. This is the side of Russell we remember from his iconic role as anti-hero Snake Plisskin in John Carpenter’s “Escape From New York,” and the side we were promised with (but didn’t get) in the 2001 Tarantino-ripoff thriller “3000 Miles to Graceland” (still the worst film of the 2000s). Leave it to the real thing (that being Tarantino, and not some wannabe) to bring it out, but with a tinge of sadness that helps deepen character.
But Mike’s in for a challenge after he’s let off the hook for the deaths- not enough evidence- when he starts to hunt down a quartet of women- New Zealand stuntwoman Zoe Bell (who was Uma Thurman’s stunt-double in “Kill Bill” and plays herself in a star-making turn as engaging on a performance level as it is exciting when we get to see her in action), a makeup artist (Rosario Dawson, sexy and sassy as usual- always a fetching combination from her), an actress (Mary Elizabeth Winstead, given little to do, but given a hot little cheerleader outfit to do it in- that would be your cue to drool men (and some women, I guess)), and a fellow stuntwoman (“Rent’s” Tracie Thoms makes her character a smart little Hellcat to watch)- who are in town to try out a ’71 Dodge Challenger- just like the one featured in the grindhouse classic “Vanishing Point”- on a joyride. The situation turns from the usual stalk-and-terrorize into the usual turn-the-tables thrill-ride, but the thrills are real as Tarantino- working as his own cinematographer for the first time (but leaving the editing to his long-time collaborator Sally Menke)- stages a car chase that surpasses any recent efforts, if only because we know that everything we’re watching is real, but also because Q.T. insists on letting us know these characters with the same verbal wit and style we’ve come to love about his work over the years, and see that there’s real care in developing a rapport between the characters that feels genuine. That he takes the same care of character development with the first set of women- who’ll be gone by the midway point- is what throws us for a loop; what was the point to establish that bond if he’s just gonna rip it from us halfway in? It not only throws the pacing of “Grindhouse”- which hit the ground running with Rodriguez (and doesn’t feel the weight of its’ 3-hour-plus running time elsewhere)- off but also starts “Death Proof” off on an uneasy note. But by the time the film reaches its’ violent- and violently funny- conclusion, honestly, I gotta say, you don’t really care. You’re having too much fun with the payoff of Tarantino’s thriller to really be bothered by what came before it…and you kind of get the feeling that in multiple viewings, the film will only be more fun to watch, and those reservations one might have with the beginning will fade away. Grade for “Death Proof”- B+ (but don’t be surprised if that changes for the better in the future)
Really, there’s not much more to say. You can probably tell by my individual looks at the films which one I enjoyed over the other (both are good, but Rodriguez’s thrilled more upon first viewing than Quentin’s), but this is more about the collective experience of “Grindhouse” as a whole. On that level, no other film this year comes close to being as much fun. I loved the old-timey touches of the old-stock reels, the scratches on the prints, the so-bad-they-look-good trailers, and finally, the down-and-dirty thrills of two films that know what they’re meant to be- good ol’ trashy fun. Not too many Hollywood films nowadays can say that. Actually, they can- they just don’t want to. “Grindhouse’s” offerings will happily cop to it. For that, they have my blessing.
