“Grindhouse” opened nationwide last week to a “disappointing” fourth place. This could be because it clocks in at three hours, it was a violent film opening on the anniversary of that time Zombie Jesus arose and started eating people’s brains Easter weekend or, sadly, because the modern mainstream movie going audience isn’t familiar with filmic terms like exploitation, grindhouse or double feature. None of that matters, though. “Grindhouse” was, with a few exceptions, a bullet train of fucking tight rattling theatres to their foundations as it passed.
Be ye warned, there are spoilers ahead.
“Grindhouse” continues the tradition, for better or worse, of the undeniably Western aesthetic of violence as art. Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino are masters of the art. Each geyser of blood spewing forth from a shrapnel-punctured limb or lead-perforated head transcends pornographic sanguineousness; they are peers to Renaissance crucifixion details.
That isn’t to say this big-budget double feature is humorless. A well-developed sense of dark comedy runs through “Planet Terror” and “Death Proof,” and most especially the mock trailers that run between features, hawking faux-films with names like “Don’t” and “Werewolf Women of the S.S.”, directed by Edgar Wright (“Shaun of the Dead”) and Rob Zombie, respectively. That sense of fun extended into the theater. Most movie-watching experiences are staid; even with comedic fare one is expected to be quiet between spasms of laughter. “Grindhouse,” however, was more block party than religious service.
If there’s one mistake Rodriguez and Tarantino made, it was putting “Planet Terror” first on the bill, as it is the better of the two movies. This isn’t to say “Death Proof” isn’t deserving of praise – but more on that in a bit. “Terror” has everything a 70’s zombie exploitation film should: missing reels, gratuitous nudity, pustulant sores, wink-wink, nudge-nudge clichés and Rose McGowan as an amputee with machine gun prosthesis. One could tell Rodriguez enjoyed making it as much as the audience loved watching it.
How could “Death Proof” possibly carry on the momentum of the first film? It couldn’t, at least not at first. “Proof” is disjointed, which Tarantino apparently intended, but the movie suffers as a result. He takes far too long to introduce Kurt Russell’s Stuntman Mike, and the first gaggle of girls we encounter are annoying at best. There is no emotional investment when they meet their end. Then, he switches to the story of a new set of girls a third of the way into the story, which at first irritates but begins to pay off. In the last third, it all comes together with glorious, adrenaline-pumping car chases, some fine, emotional acting from Mr. Russell and powerful left hooks to the affront of misogyny. It could have been executed better, but at least by the end of the film the payoff compensates for any inadequacies.
Rumors are already floating around the internet about a possible “Grindhouse” sequel. One hopes that despite the first’s low box office grosses a second one is made, for the sake of satisfied neo-exploitation fans everywhere.
