If you don't like grindhouse, then fuck you

Come for the exploitation, stay for another Tarantino masterpiece

DYLAN FERGUSON STAFF

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Among other things, what trailblazing, pop-culture-junkie genius Quentin Tarantino and giddy, do-it-yourself maverick Robert Rodriguez have in common is a “stick it to ’em” attitude towards their audience. Neither writer/director is the slightest bit interested in making their movies easy, accessible, or — God forbid — conventional. They adopt a balls-out attitude that challenges the audience to either love what they’re offering or get the fuck out of the theatre. Those who love it are wont to really love it, and those who get the fuck out, such as one individual at the screening I attended, are wont to vomit on their way to the bathroom.

Exploitation cinema of the ’70s thrived on just such an attitude, so no one should be surprised that the two filmmakers used the now defunct format of a “grindhouse” double-bill to get together and do their thing under one seedy roof. You may no longer be able to smoke in the theatre, and Grindhouse may have a budget that eclipses all those old exploitation flicks combined, but the two movies by the two directors do kick ass.

Which is a relief, because the whole concept, which includes digitally “aged” film, cheekily placed “missing reels,” and interspersed fake FILMAtrailers made by the likes of neo-schlock-shockers Eli Roth and Rob Zombie, would just be too cute for its own badass good if the films couldn’t hold their own.

First up is Robert Rodriguez’s Planet Terror, easily the Mexican director’s best work outside of Sin City. It stars Rose McGowan as a one-legged stripper and Freddy Rodriguez as a mysterious mercenary who rekindle an old love affair and team up to fight grotesquely deformed zombies. It also features Josh Brolin, Marley Shelton, Bruce Willis, and Stacy “Fergie Ferg” Ferguson (no relation to this fergalicious author) but the real stars are a whole lot of gross-out make-up effects and lots of exploded heads and vehicles.

RobRod has incredible enthusiasm as a filmmaker but generally seems to be operating at about the level of a 14-year-old. For Planet Terror, he manages to construct something of an operational storyline, quite a feat for him, using an easy John Carpenter-esque format. The film is gloriously and repulsively over the top, essentially a comedy, but fast-paced, well-scored, full of fun caricatures, and therefore a hell of a good time.

Still, Tarantino’s contribution, Death Proof, is superior by light-years, and is the true reason why Grindhouse is a must-see. While I enjoyed Planet Terror, I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I discovered QT had done something truly “out there”: he has real characters that talk. Great dialogue is the perfect tonic for an hour-and-a-half of gore that makes you want to bang your head against a wall.

Death Proof is nothing short of a masterpiece. QT seems to have a magic influence over actors, milking amazing performances out of them, and his magician’s touch causes Kurt Russell to deliver what’s almost certainly the best work of his life as Stuntman Mike. Mike is an old-timey car enthusiast who’s weird but kind of charming, until he starts spitefully murdering young girls with his Chevy Nova.

The young girls include Rose McGowan (again), Sydney Poitier (daughter of that Sidney Poitier), Rosario Dawson, Tracie Thoms and, of particular note, Zoe Bell. New Zealander Bell was Uma Thurman’s stunt double in Kill Bill, and she delivers an amazing stunt sequence in Death Proof, clinging for dear life to the hood of a Dodge Challenger as it tries to elude Mike’s death-mobile at high speeds.

Tarantino lingers lovingly on the extended scenes of dialogue between the girls. He doesn’t force character development on them, but lets them chat, allowing the characters to be perceived through voyeurism, and each and every young actress seems amazingly comfortable on screen. The story is sparse but great, hinting at a terrible tension between the sexes that is never really openly stated. Unless it’s in the surprising role-reversal finale, a finale that does a good deal to counteract Robert Rodriguez’s omnipresent misogyny.

Grindhouse is a gruelling, taxing cinematic experience at close to three-and-a-half hours, but its total effect is cumulative and awe-inspiring. However, if you don’t think you can pay attention for that long, my advice is to enter the theatre at the 100-minute mark and just catch Death Proof, which is further proof that QT is a cinematic genius at the top of his game.

The final hand that Grindhouse plays in its glorious Grand Guignol is supplanting splatter and bang with humanity. The second act is a work of beautiful, well-realized filmmaking. And that’s the real shocker.