Death Proof (2007)

On paper, the Grindhouse double feature looks dangerously like a vanity project from two cocky film directors.  And make no mistake, Robert Rodriquez and Quentin Tarantino spend a fair amount of both these movies just dicking around.  Your tolerance for these gory joy rides will depend on how well you handle their respective flights of cutesy-poo indulgence.  If two uber-wealthy filmmakers and an all-star cast riffing on obscure 70s schlock is more hip irony than you can handle, then it’s best to subtract a full star off this review.  

We’ll start with QT’s entry, Death Proof.  He kicks off with four young women (Sydney Tamiia Poitier, Vanessa Ferlito, Jordan Ladd, Monica Staggs) as they embark on a night out in Austin, TX.  As Tarantino openings go, this one is unusually benign.  Ordinarily, you’d expect this quartet to be out for a heist or maybe some blood-soaked revenge.  Instead, these ladies spend the first act getting blazed, downing tequila shots, and looking for some strange. 

Of course, anybody who knows Tarantino knows how much he loves to light a slow burn.  Things get lit with appearance of Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell).  As the name implies, Mike is a stunt player from the Smokey and the Bandit era of Hollywood.  Now, he’s an edgy, middle-aged burnout–a psychopath hidden behind an ominously pleasant smile.  As our heroines get three sheets, Stuntman Mike perches on a nearby barstool and bides his time.  

I won’t give away too many details, except one you’ll probably have sussed out by now:  Mike is a serial killer.  His ’70 Chevy Nova has been outfitted to be “death proof,” meaning it can survive any stunt collision on a movie set.  This allows Stuntman Mike to turn in his car into a weapon of mass destruction, and he quickly puts these four women in his sights.  

At this point, QT pulls the same switcheroo Hitchcock did in Psycho.  For about half the movie, Tarantino tricks you into thinking the initial quartet of ladies are the focus of Death Proof, and then he whisks them right off the screen.  That means you’ve got to bond with a new batch of characters (Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Rosario Dawson, Zoë Bell, Tracie Thoms) before they have their inevitable run-in with Stuntman Mike.  That showdown will have one key difference from the first:  These women have the weapons, training, and car savvy to counter Mike’s shenanigans.  

Most of Death Proof hits the usual Tarantino highlights:  A pulsating playlist of 60s and 70s deep tracks.  Lots of dense, circuitous dialogue.  Riffs on classic cinema, with everything from Vanishing Point to Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry popping up in the story.  And, oh yeah, lots of lingering closeups of women’s feet.  (Seriously, I think this film is where Tarantino’s foot fetish reached full flower.)

Put all that together, and you’ve got a must on the checklist for Tarantino fans.  Now that most of his filmography resides in the rear-view, I can safely say that QT ranks alongside Spielberg, Scorsese, and Cameron in the realm of directors who never make anything bad.  Just lesser than.  And that’s exactly what Death Proof is:  A throwaway lark that has impressive stunt work and a sly turn from Kurt Russell as the oily bad guy.  Judged against Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, this is a middling experience.  On its own merits, you know…meh.

And that brings me to Death Proof’s biggest flaw.  Throughout the film, Tarantino can’t resist long scenes of blathering dialogue, and they absolutely kill the story’s momentum.  In particular, a diner scene with the second squad of ladies (echoing the opening of Reservoir Dogs) goes on for eight interminable minutes.  The characters talk in circles while Tarantino’s camera swirls around them.  By the end, I needed a patch of dramamine.  If Tarantino could’ve reigned in his indulgences, this could’ve been a minor classic.  As is, Death Proof only offers glimmers of a good thing.  

Planet Terror (2007)

While Tarantino desperately tries to pull Grindhouse up to the art house, Rodriguez wisely slips down into the slop.  Planet Terror is unapologetic dreck, through and through.  Rodriguez—who writes, directs, scores, and shoots—crafts a meticulous facsimile of the 70s exploitation flicks.  The dialogue, the camera work, and the film’s cheapo aesthetic all look like premium talent wallowing in the slums.  If Tarantino can’t help but remind you he’s an Oscar-winner, then Rodriguez goes full method and disappears into the material. 

The plot is so simple you could squeeze it onto a post-it note:  Somewhere in the hinterlands of West Texas, strange things are a-brewin’.  The military is conducting some kinda off-the-books experiment that transforms people into snarling, slobbering zombies.  Naturally, that experiment spills off the base and begins infecting the locals.  

As always, it falls to a disparate Scooby gang to save humanity.   These zombie smashers are led by Wray (Freddie Rodriguez).  He’s a young badass with a Liam Neeson set of skills.  Where and how those skills came into being, we never find out.  (Schlock horror wouldn’t bother with a backstory, so neither does Rodriguez.)  His old flame is Cherry Darling (Rose McGowan), a go-go dancer with a broken heart.  Then there’s the hard-bitten sheriff (Michael Biehn), his barbecuing brother (Jeff Fahey), an embittered doctor (Marley Shelton), and her no-good husband (Josh Brolin).  

What follows is everything you’d expect:  Lots of campy visuals (McGowan’s rocket-launching leg prosthetic, for instance), deliberately clunky dialogue, and a flimsy storyline.  Just about everybody vibes into the film’s straight-faced goofiness, especially Fahey as the daffy chef who can’t quite perfect his rib rub.  

It also shouldn’t come as a shock that Rodriguez fills his flick with ickiness. The zombies are like pustules come to life, so be prepared for lots of oozing, gurgling, and bursting.  Hell, if you’ve made it this far into the double feature, I figure you’re desensitized to the gore and violence, anyway.

If there’s a fly in Planet Terror’s ointment, it’s that Rodriguez is every bit as indulgent as Tarantino, albeit in a different form.  He cannot resist the urge to pack his zombie epic with big-name cameos to remind you he’s an above-the-title director.  I would spoil them for you, except to say that they’re more distracting than amusing.  Even worse, they detract from the film’s shoestring look and feel.  

Still, Planet Terror cobbles together a pretty good time.  Those in search of fitfully funny drivel won’t be disappointed.  On the flip side, if you’re in search of something more emotionally filling, both films will probably let you down.  Yes, both are clever and totally watchable, but neither has proven to be the least bit memorable.

Planet Terror:  105 min.  R.  Amazon Video.

Death Proof:  113 min.  R.  Amazon Video.