Grindhouse

If it accomplishes nothing else, “Grindhouse” will at least go down in history as the fist time ever that movie goers could look to a Quentin Tarantino movie as a source of relief (a safe harbor if you will) from nauseating, violent, lurid cinema. Don’t believe me? Well I’m in print so that makes me right. I suppose getting all arrogant about my position as movie reviewer may not be the best thing to do in the first issue of spring quarter, but you mustn’t hold me accountable for it. I feel as though my heads been run over by an eighteen wheeler of gore, language, pop culture references, and seriously awesome music; in that state I’m liable to say anything.
For anyone who hasn’t seen one of the numerous retro themed posters, or caught one of the exhilarating montages of ludicrous action and one line zingers promoting the film, or films rather, “Grindhouse” is a double feature by writers/directors/best friends Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino.
They’re calling it homage to the exploitation films they consumed in grindhouse theaters as children. I’m calling it two masters of film getting free rein to drop the pretense of “art” and revel in the most fully realized examples of cinematic schlock.
Now it’s not that they haven’t both produced their own unique versions of an exploitation film, it’s just that it’s not new. They’ve both been doing this since they got a camera in their hands, but as I said before, this time around they’re coming right out and dropping all the refinement so all that’s left is the gritty unsettling showcase of every kind of disgusting thing two forty-something year olds can imagine.
I shouldn’t be so mean; I’m making it sound like I hated it. In all honesty it was a pretty serious three-hour sensation. And I only accuse them both because it’s billed as their united project and the cross over of their films made it feel like, really, we were seeing two different stories from the same perverted world.
Comparing the works of the two directors here renders the same evaluation that you’d get by comparing the entire bodies of their work. (Excepting, of course, Rodriguez’ “Spy Kids” there’s nothing for kids here. Hear that Mr. or Mrs. Want-to-be-the-cool-and-loved-parent-so-I’ll-take-my-eleven-year-old, I beg you keep anyone under the age of eighteen as far away as humanly possibly!)
Robert Rodriguez makes very entertaining movies, and when you’re watching them you don’t have to do anything but sit back and let it all in. “El Mariachi,” “Desperado,” “Sin City,” they’re great movies because they thrill and appall and leave you feeling used in the theater seat. The first half of “Grindhouse,” a film called “Planet Terror” is easily the more shocking of the two, probably the most memorable, and was used for the majority of the marketing. It’s all about looks. Government testing produces zombies and a small group of courageous accidental heroes bands together to fight the government, the zombies, and fate so they can live through the night from hell.
It’s simple and easy to enjoy. I wanted to throw up for half of it, and throughout it I wondered who was paid and how much they got to give this movie an R rating, but overall it is the kind of thing you’d picture in your mind when you hear the words “exploitation film.”
This one, surprisingly, also gave us a wider set of iconic characters. Tarantino has give us dozens of memorable heroes, badasses, sweethearts, and femme fatales, but you compare Rose McGowan’s Cherry Darling, a go-go dancer with aspirations of being a stand up comedian and a machine gun/grenade launcher for a right leg, with any of the girls from Tarantino’s contribution and you tell me who you’ll remember.
By the time the fake trailers for films too disgusting to imagine have rolled and Tarantino’s film “Death Proof” begins we are all too relieved to have some rest from the gore-fest that was “Planet Terror.” We don’t want to let our guard down too quickly; this is the director that showed us Zed, The Gimp, and the horrific underworld of L.A. pawnshops.
Quentin takes as high a road as he possible could, considering the goal of the movie. His is a hilarious character and dialogue-based movie with only a couple scenes of violence, and a story that is simple, straightforward and pretty well resolved in the end. Kurt Russell, at the best he’s been in years, plays Stuntman Mike, a scarred up stalked with a reinforced car that, supposedly, guarantees the driver his life no matter the speed or manner of collision.
If I had to guess I’d say that most people would like “Planet Terror” more than “Death Proof,” but not me. As fun as the former may have been, it left me feeling distinctly grotesque at the thought that I was supposed to enjoy watching a zombie pop a bulbous growth of pussy infected flesh into a doctor’s eye. Rodriguez has it where we can see it, but Tarantino’s movie has it where it really counts.
I know we’re looking at about a million third-in-the-series movies, at least one fifth movie, and a whole variety of new blockbusters in the coming months, but I’d wager that, this year, you will not see anything cooler than Cherry Darling blasting herself forty feet into the air with a rocket from her leg so she can vault a concrete wall and waste about fifty troops on the return to earth. It’s not great art, it won’t be nominated (for cinematography OR writing), it’s cheap trash cinema, and these made it about as good as possible.

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