Grindhouse (2007)

Somerville Theater, Somerville, MA

May 09, 2007

*** 1/2 / ****

Envision if you will two overgrown, eccentric teenagers chock-full of talent and movie lore knowledge getting their hands on fancy film equipment and 25 million bucks a piece in order to create a cinematic double feature. Then imagine no one behind the scenes telling them what to do, how to do it, or when to stop doing it. Throw in a bevy of hot chicks, studly dudes, all the directors’ friends, family, and acquaintances, a half-dozen fake movie previews, phoney commercials, and vintage-style lead-ins and you’ve got Grindhouse: the exhausting 3-hour plus Robert Rodriguez/Quentin Tarantino double bill homage to ‘70s drive-in exploitation flicks. So much more than just a pair of movies, Grindhouse is a vulgar display of aggression, machismo, and the bizarre, every teenager’s wildest dream come true and every parent’s worst nightmare.

Let the spoilers begin!

Out of the gates we are greeted with Rodriguez’ Machete, an action revenge faux movie trailer featuring pock-marked tough guy Danny Trejo in the title role. It looks vintage, is totally ridiculous, and gets a huge laugh when the main man opens his trenchcoat revealing a collection of cutlery that would be the envy of both Emeril and Jason Voorhees; a perfect opening that sets the tone for the cavalcade of the bizarre that is to come.

Following Machete is the first feature presentation, Rodriguez’ Planet Terror. Paying tribute to numerous vintage zombie flicks and horror movie pioneer John Carpenter’s Halloween and Escape from New York, Planet Terror is an over-the-top extravaganza of funny weird characters, gruesome special effects, hot chicks getting mauled and doing the mauling, and non-stop uncensored gore. The movie features Bruce Willis as a brutal Iraqi War veteran wearing a gas mask to combat a flesh eating disease he acquired while killing Osama bin Laden (yes, that bin Laden!), Josh Brolin as a no-nonsense doctor jealous of his wife’s same-sex infidelity, Marley Shelton (the adulteress!) as a scream queen-looking vixen of a doctor who loves her color-coded needles as much as her lipstick ladies, Freddy Rodriguez as a pint-sized vigilante extraordinaire who can literally run up the sides of walls, Rose McGowan as a vivacious sex kitten whose opening pole dance alone is worth the price of admission, and an array of awesome character actors perfectly filling the movie’s exquisite attention to detail.

Barreling through its crazy plot of zombie carnage and military explosions at break neck speed and with unmitigated chutzpah, Planet Terror manages to slow down just enough for the audience to catch a breath and laugh at an array of hilarious throw-away one-liners and visual gags. In striving to emulate his influences Rodriguez’s Planet Terror succeeds not only as admiral homage but is itself a worthy successor and contemporary re-imagination of the highest order. The only misstep: an overly long Tarantino cameo that would have been better served on the cutting room floor. But gratuitous cameos be damned, this is Grade-A (or is it Z?) entertainment at its best.

Following Planet Terror things get even better with an onslaught of outrageously entertaining fake movie trailers. The bizarre Halloween parody Thanksgiving is ludicrously hilarious and the best of the bunch with its Pilgrim garbed killer, turkey tinged puns, and a final shot that mere words can not adequately describe (probably because we can’t be sure what it is we saw!). Finishing a close second is Don’t, another laughably brilliant phony preview where, in syncopated cadence, the worst voice over announcer ever repeatedly urges the movie’s characters to avoid everything in sight. We hear, “Don’t…turn…that…door…knob…Don’t…go…in…the…basement,” and on and on until the whole thing spirals hilariously out of control. “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!”

The weakest trailer of the bunch is the Rob Zombie entry, Werewolf Women of the S.S. The Nazi-dominatrix theme, while funny in concept, falls short in execution appearing too bright and cheery and not nearly as over-the-top vintage absurd as the others. It still gets the job done but isn’t quite in league with the others.

A horribly tacky commercial for Acunas, a fake Mexican restaurant, closes out the intermission earning well-deserved chuckles along the way (look for its reappearance in Death Proof!).

The last segment of Grindhouse, Tarantino’s Death Proof, is the second feature on the bill and the weaker of the two full-length films by far. From the get-go Death Proof languishes in naval contemplating Tarantino-speak by introducing a quartet of horribly talkative and ingratiating women we’re supposed to like but don’t. In a case of the actresses aping the director without being imbued with their own personalities, it is as if the women are little more than randy, foul-mouthed female Tarantino vessels spewing the director’s own favorite music, movie, and popular culture soliloquies. Both ineffective and cosmically boring, it is a major misstep and a tough half-hour to sit through.

The director follows up his talk-a-thon first act by pulling an Alfred Hitchcock, Psycho-style, which means having his lasses bite the big one halfway through. Tarantino then introduces four replacements who are only slightly less annoying, offs or turns evil his two best and most likable characters (Rose McGowan and Kurt Russell) and then pushes forward with 40 minutes of stunt chase yawns where our balloon bubbles say it all, “Why not just pull the car over?” and “This certainly ain’t no Faster Pussycat.”

Death Proof isn’t horrible but it isn’t quite up to the Rodriguez effort for entertainment value or effective grindhouse mimicry. It does have its moments though, in particular, the phenomenal performance by Kurt Russell as Stuntman Mike. A throwback ‘70s dude whose appearance, manner, and general character are as coolly dated as Levi’s jeans and a white t-shirt, he is best described in the movie by a puzzled bar patron, “What happened to him, did he fall out of time machine or something?” Russell not only walks the walk but talks the talk (which in Tarantinoland is quite a challenge), mesmerizing us equally with Tarantinoesque monologues and hissy-fit emotional breakdowns. It is a performance on par with Vince, Jules, and Mia from Pulp Fiction and proves once again that Russell is still a bad, bad dude and a superb actor.

Yet sadly, for all Russell’s pitch perfect machismo, Death Proof is less about characters and more about the big car chase finale, another reason it never quite takes flight. The chase, for all its emphasis on “real” stunt work and lack of computer generated funny business, never quite convinces. Professional stuntwoman Zoe Bell, who here makes her head-up acting debut, holds her own but still seems out of place and obviously cast for her stunt work prowess. When she gets her big moment atop the hood of a vintage Dodge Charger she clearly proves her stunt work expertise, but Tarantino drops the ball by having the scene occur at much lower speeds than the movie implies. Sure, this is nit-picking but it also proves Death Proof’s greatest miscalculation: it knowingly tries too hard and consequently loses its innocence and authenticity. Where an original grindhouse flick would throw a low paid actor on the hood of the car with a devil may care attitude (and probably have his face accidentally show on screen as well!), Tarantino hires the best in the business and puts her in the same situation. Knowing what you want to be and doing it isn’t quite the same as just being what you are and this lack of authenticity, as ironic as it may be, inevitably proves Death Proof’s undoing.

Be certain though that for all its self-indulgences and self-aware artful high mindedness (if emulating ‘70s exploitation fare can be deemed artful or high-minded) Grindhouse as a whole is a novel and entertaining contemporary cinematic experience. While surely all manners of obscene Grindhouse is still wildly amusing, inventive, groundbreaking, and the first time in a long time I am certain my money at the theater was well spent. It is a shame that when the receipts are finally tallied and Grindhouse shows a financial loss that it will be considered a failure because it is far, far from it. Money be damned, Grindhouse is a success in the truest sense of the word and much more than a pair a movies, but rather, a full entertainment experience.