Grindhouse isn’t just a film. It’s two movies strapped together with the glue of four slickly produced and totally ludicrous trailers, trimmed in faux-1970s movie-theater sleaze, glazed with a sheen of postmodern irony and stripped of all sense of decency. Helmed by two directors known for their sense of style in matters of comedic violence and stunning visuals, Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez, Grindhouse is dedicated to the cheap 1970s movie theaters of the same name that played B-movies, kung fu flicks, the descendants of Plan 9 From Outer Space, and whatever else would make a buck through movie marathons, double headers, and schlock ads.
Tarantino and Rodriguez flip the genre on its head – instead of relying on a shocking premise to draw an audience and then send them away with a slipshod film, Grindhouse drips with art. The film launches right into a campy “Coming Attractions” screen before the first fake trailer plays, a Chicanosploitation slasher film called Machete, featuring the title character (Danny Trejo) in lots of explosions, machete-ing, and Cheech Marin playing a homicidal Catholic priest. There are three other trailers, but I don’t want to give too much away – rest assured that the trailers are awesome, hilarious and 100 percent ridiculous. Worth the price of admission alone.
Planet Terror, Rodriguez’s tribute to the zombie genre, is the wilder and campier of the two movies. Three loosely-connected plotlines barrel towards each other – a go-go dancer named Cherry’s (Rose McGowan) romance with a mysterious stranger named Wray (Freddy Rodriguez) who never misses, a lesbian-doctor (Marley Shelton) trying to escape from her homicidal husband (Josh Brolin), and a mutant war-hero (Bruce Willis) who needs a constant supply of a chemical warfare agent which is released on the civilian populace and turns them all into man-eating maniac zombies.
Rodriguez gets off to a quick start. The movie starts with a lengthy go-go dance sequence and segues into a brutal gunfight where crazed soldiers become horrific monsters. From there, the sex and violence continuously crescendos. Cherry loses a leg, Wray turns out to be a zombie-killing machine and zombies (not to mention their victims) get splattered like it’s a first person shooter. After a certain point, the violence stops being shocking and becomes funny. The constant onslaught quickly becomes desensitizing, and the brutality of the gore becomes comical. After a fake “missing reel,” the plotline jumps forward and Rodriguez absolutely blows the speakers out. Scenes stack on top of each other, more explosions happen, zombies get killed, and the plot dissolves into surreality with Bruce Willis talking about Osama bin Laden and Cherry strapping a supergun on to her stub. Also, Quentin Tarantino’s mutant penis liquefies. I swear.
Death Proof, Tarantino’s contribution, is more tame. Rather than going for over-the-top action and wild violence, the movie focuses on a slow, steady creeping tension. Kurt Russell plays Stuntman Mike, a homicidal sexual deviant who kills pretty young girls with his “deathproof” car, until he comes up against two female Hollywood stuntwomen in a Vanishing Point 1970 Dodge Charger and the two vehicles engage in a thrilling duel with their 1970s muscle cars. The dialogue and the characters are pure Tarantino, maybe even to a fault. There are two main story arcs, the first featuring “Jungle Julia” (Sydney Poitier) and her friends, all of which die in a gruesome car accident that may be one of the most shocking and graphic pieces of cinema committed to film in the last ten years. The second story arc builds on that same tension until the tide turns on Stuntman Mike. Then the theater I was in actually burst into applause.
So Death Proof might be just a little too Tarantino. Kim (Tracie Thoms), one of the stuntwomen, is basically every Samuel L. Jackson character in every Quentin Tarantino movie, except female. The underlying message is basically just Kill Bill and Jackie Brown muddled together and the dialogue around the diner room table smacks of Reservoir Dogs. Tarantino might claim self-reference, but I think it’s just getting repetitive. It’s also a slow starter, which after the furious pace at the end of Planet Terror and the two trailers, is a hell of a let down. And when the second story arc starts up, the movie clatters to a halt again. It would have made a lot more sense to me to have Deathproof first and then Planet Terror.
Fair warning, the film is also three and a half hours long (it’s two movies and four trailers, after all), but I was so excited that I didn’t leave the theater. If you really need a potty break, though, I’d suggest going in the beginning of Tarantino’s flick.
For everyone out there who knows that low culture genres can be amazing, Grindhouse will be a blast to watch. Fans of Sin City or any Tarantino film will be pleased – but for all the people who find this kind of post-modern revision vapid and pointless, don’t bother pissing yourself off. By classic standards, perhaps these aren’t “good” movies, but they’re exploding with wit and energy – if you want to have the best time ever with your friends that laugh at inappropriate moments, go Grindhouse.