Grindhouse REVIEW
By now everyone probably knows that the movie “Grindhouse”, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's two-fisted ode to the exploitation films of yore, is actually two movies, plus fake trailers. Each director has created a full-length feature that fits into the mold of what is known as “grindhouse cinema”, which seems to refer to not only a no-holds-barred, shameless level of filmmaking that can encompass any number of genres, (but often favoring misogynistic horror and butt-kicking babes-in-peril,) but the type of low grade movie-going experience that one endured to see these flicks theatrically. Likewise, “Grindhouse” is not so much about emulating these old-school films to a tee so much as it is about the experience of seeing them. Rodriguez and Tarantino employ fake scratches, washed-out color, amateur film splicing, and vintage-style theater announcements to make their newly created films, “Planet Terror” (zombie horror) and Death Proof” (babes-in-peril) better fit the grindhouse mold. The question becomes how successful is this nutty little project in truly re-capturing this long-gone experience.
There is no question that both feature films are highly entertaining, good-time films. They are distinct enough that most viewers will come away clearly preferring one over the other. This is to the credit of what the filmmakers are trying to do in terms of presenting the diversity of the grindhouse. These guys clearly know their stuff in this department, each with a filmography overflowing with modern-day revisionist grindhouse work. Rodriguez's “Desperado” and “Sin City”, and Tarantino's “Reservoir Dogs” and “Jackie Brown”, just to name a few, fall into this category. Among the key differences between these films and the vintage grinders, however, are the obvious higher budgets and studio production values, as well as their reflection of modern-day values in terms of cinematic exploitation. Sex and nudity clearly take a back seat to guns, violence, and explosions, although Rodriguez is definitely more prone to depicting all of the above than Tarantino, who has instead brought to the table sharp yakkity-yak dialogue spiked with his own cinematic obsession. So where do “Planet Terror” and “Death Proof” fit in? Clearly, for better or for worse, they fit in quite comfortably with their older siblings on each director's respective filmography. They are, in many ways, simply the latest modern day exploitation films these guys have made, only this time more dressed up with deliberate pops and scratches, to the point of distracting self-awareness. This is made painfully clear when “missing reel” cards tend to pop up in order to self-censor sexual material.
But don't take all of this the wrong way -- as stated before, both features are entertaining, rock ‘em sock ‘em flicks. 191 minutes never went by so fast in the movie theater, and that's one of the highest compliments one could pay this work. As for which film is better, this reviewer absolutely gives the nod to Tarantino's high-octane “Death Proof”. Granted, I've always been a Tarantino fan, whereas the only Rodriguez film that's won me over has been “Sin City”, which only half counts, since it was co-directed by Frank Miller. Tarantino is a genuine, hardcore film buff, the likes of which so many of us only wish we had the time to become. This quality and essence -- the love of cinema above all else - shines through in all of his films. “Death Proof” is no exception. Ever emulating his favorite directors and genres, this time the target is early 1970s car-sploitation, ala “Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry” and “Vanishing Point”, the latter of which should be pre-requisite viewing. Its famous white Dodge Challenger does more to set the tone for this film than its much-hyped star, the capable Kurt Russell.
Russell is Stuntman Mike, the psychotic driver of a Hollywood stunt car that serves as his murder weapon of choice. While it is refreshing to see the actor back in a balls-out butt kicker of a movie, his presence has probably been oversold, as his screen time is particularly limited, with him sometimes dropping off the radar altogether. The movie actually focuses on two separate groups of young women that Stuntman Mike stalks before striking, “Duel” style. Both groups engage in long-winded rounds of snappy banter -- it wouldn't be a Tarantino movie if they didn't -- in both cases detailing their love lives ala “Sex in the City”. It is interesting to note the differences in the mores of each group, and how the movie ultimately treats them in terms of playing on the sympathies of the presumed mostly male audience. In the interest of not revealing spoilers, that examination will have to wait.
Because of all the chattiness and lack of major violence, there will no doubt be many who feel that “Death Proof” is a big come-down from the crazed pyrotechnics and gore of “Planet Terror”, the lead feature. But fans of purer cinema will recognize that Tarantino's film, while never blatantly reaching the levels of greatness he has in the past, is the superior of the two, and yes, the most honest to its roots. Viewers are lulled very subtly into the rhythm of this film, and when the stops are finally yanked away -- and rest assured, they are -- it becomes a type of audience torturing endurance test, as the heroines in peril hang on for dear life. This is no slasher film where we are subversively intended to root for the deranged killer.
Tarantino, like Rodriguez, has taken a Director of Photography credit, which in this case perhaps explains the lack of precise lighting. The first half hour in particular wallows in that kind of washed-out sleazy look one associates with those drugged-out AIP features watched on UHF stations late at night as a kid. From the opening frames of “Death Proof”, the director's notorious foot fetish is right out there, and continues throughout the film. Tarantino-movie Easter eggs abound, as do bizarre connections to “Planet Terror”. This film is almost certainly destined to be dismissed as a lesser work by film historians and critics, but that might just be a wrong-headed move. Although a shallow thrill ride on the surface, “Death Proof” provides an experience all its own, and is quite successful in that regard.
“Planet Terror”, on the other hand, is more of a mixed bag. If Tarantino is the premiere hardcore film buff, then Rodriguez is the perpetual twelve year-old boy with a movie production company. His films have never ventured beyond the scope of cool action posturing and glorified firepower displays. Occasionally this works to great success, but on the whole, movies like “Once Upon a Time in Mexico” and “Shark Boy and Lava Girl” go down like empty calories.
If “Planet Terror” is any kind of step forward for him, it's in his ability to mock his own tailor made filmic reputation. This latest work plays like a Rodriguez spoof dressed up as some kind of crazed Italian zombie film. Nothing wrong with that, but the filmmaker seems to use an overabundance of dark humor to cover for the fact that he can't do solid characters that resonate. That these characters weather a militarily fueled bio-chemical zombie outbreak, suffering some of the worst losses one could suffer, all played for laughs, points to either an inability to truly commit to the grindhouse tenor of intensity, or a greater lack of confidence in his material to the point that he must hide behind a veil of often non-appropriate humor.
This is not to say “Planet Terror” sucks -- it is a lot of fun for what it is - but on the whole, it suffers from the pile-on factor, like much of Rodriguez's other work. Too many undefined characters running around, too many explosions going off all the time, too many strangely cast, distracting stars, and too much flash and chaos for its own good. By now, we're all used to this in Rodriguez's work, and may even come to expect it. But that doesn't quite account for the notion that his idea of making a grindhouse flick is to make a goofy version of his more straight-faced work, add lots of blood and gore, and scratch the living daylights out of the film. Yes, Rose McGowan with a machine gun leg is an inspired wacky idea -- enough so to hang the whole marketing campaign on (and I can't say I blame them), but when that's as good as it gets, Rodriguez better be happy he has the budget to light a lot of fires and blow up a bunch of crap. Through all this, there is an attempt to hit on the inherent political nature of zombie films, but, perhaps successfully to the grindhouse model, this element comes off as perpetually half-baked. Not even Tom Savini in a supporting role can ultimately elevate “Planet Terror” to where it should be.
In between these diverse exercises in old-school excess are three fake movie trailers by some of the up-and-coming extreme filmmaking talents currently perched to knock Tarantino and Rodriguez out of their top spots in the film geek pantheon. The trailers rank as follows:
1. “Thanksgiving” by Eli Roth. The only piece in the entirety of the “Grindhouse” experience to truly push the envelope in terms of content and good taste, Roth nails it by warping a beloved holiday into a killing spree, ala “Black Christmas” or “Halloween”. His use of a faded, grizzly film look accompanied by a deep unaffected voice over do more to sell the false authenticity than the ultra gratuitous nudity and acts of violence - but those factors are of course in his favor as well. There is at least one “did I just see what I thought I saw?!?” moment, and no, I'm not referring to the naked girl trampoline/stabbing bit. If the mission of all of this was to make the most twisted, tasteless bit of business one could commit to film, all in the name of good fun and early 1970s cheap aesthetic, then Roth has delivered the goods more so than any other director in the long “Grindhouse” director list.
2. “Don't” by Edgar Wright. Probably the single funniest thing in all of “Grindhouse”, the less said about this one the better. Marred only by freeze-frame graphics that look more modern retro than authentically retro, and a general lack of grindhouse believability, all of that is easily forgiven in light of the sheer zaniness it drops in our laps. Unlike my criticisms leveled at Rodriguez for hiding behind comedy in order to soften up his grizzly material, “Don't”, being only a minute or so long, aspires only to make us laugh, and certainly does.
3. “Werewolf Women the S.S.” by Rob Zombie. It may have the most memorable title in all of “Grindhouse”, but Zombie doesn't quite nail it like he should. Yes, this has gratuitous nudity and over-the-top torture, but the filmmaker strangely relies on a cast role call for his big bang. With Udo Kier, Bill Moseley, and an unforgettably wacky celebrity cameo I won't reveal, it IS a memorable role call, but somehow this particular device seems to lack the true grindhouse spirit of no-name actors taking a back seat to sleaze and violence.
Robert Rodriguez also has his own fake trailer called “Machete” that plays before “Planet Terror”. Appropriately starring Danny Trejo as the wronged titular hero, Machete indulges in all manner of topless women and psychotic revenge on a familiar villainous white dude.
In the end, the double feature “Grindhouse” is a great time at the movies, even if it doesn't always completely live up to its high level of anticipation. The debate can rage over how well the filmmakers have lived up to their mission of recreating the grindhouse experience for a new generation -- albeit one with no real point of reference for what it is exactly that's being recreated. Have these guys given birth to a new style of throwback exploitation, or have they simply made the latest Rodriguez and Tarantino films, awkwardly dressed up with bad lighting and fake print damage? Effective arguments can be made for both positions, but one thing is for sure - no one will leave the theater feeling they haven't gotten their money's worth in some way. Unlikely to be duplicated in this manner on home video formats, “Grindhouse” is a theatrical must-see for any serious genre film buff.
- Jim Tudor
