Taking a break from my end-of-semester work delgue, I saw Grindhouse last night. If you’re curious about the Robert Rodriguez – Quentin Tarantino double feature, put on your inverse glasses and read this review by A.O. Scott in the NY Times. Because he gets everything exactly, 100% wrong. How can I trust him again?
Tarantino falls into the abyss of his own clever patter — but it’s not clever. And while it is being uttered by hot chicks, it all sounds just like Tarantino. It is almost impossible to listen to. For all the setup, there’s little payoff in his half, “Death Proof.”
Rodriguez, on the other hand, is all payoff, flipping the bird at common sense. How does Rose McGowan pull the trigger of that machine gun leg? Doesn’t matter: watch it go. How does a character who was mangled in the first reel show up in the last, intact? Or why does everyone get totally zombified immediately upon infection, except for one dude who goes half-zombie for ages until he can be especially evil? Doesn’t matter: these leaps happened in B (and C) films unintentionally, and here it fits with the play with form — the melting film, the jump cuts, the missing reel. But even with all this playful deconstruction, there’s a story there; Rose McGowan’s character has an emotional arc that gives “Planet Terror” heart. Not just for eating.
