Directed by Quentin Tarantino.
Quentin Tarantino’s latest offering was his half of the ‘Grindhouse’ collaboration with Roberto Rodriguez, revised and released separately. A homicidal stuntman uses his souped-up, ‘death proof’ car to stage murderous attacks on two groups of women, with a different outcome in each case.
Over the last few weeks I have wallowed in the glories of old cinema classics like Brief Encounter and The Roaring Twenties and seen what might come to be regarded as their equal, Atonement. I have enjoyed well-made movies like Fracture and The Prestige. I have been disappointed but nonetheless entertained by Die Hard 4.0 and 3.10 to Yuma.
And now I can add Death Proof to the list. A movie of the utmost banality. Not only is it rubbish, it is boring rubbish. And if Tarantino’s reply is that it’s a homage to the grindhouse movies of the past, complete with scratches, then it is self-indulgent boring rubbish, a film with its excuses built in.
All right, I’ll grant you a gruesome car crash, a vaguely erotic lap dance, an extended car chase and some impressive stunts. But the talk, the talk, the interminable talk!
Dialogue has always been one of Tarantino’s trademarks and he was rightly praised for it in his breakthrough films like Reservoir Dogs. It was witty, snappy and hilariously profane. It was also delivered by good, charismatic actors. It blended into the action, illuminated character and did nothing to hinder the narrative.
But in Death Proof it is idle, inane chatter between nonentities. A puffy Kurt Russell is no substitute for Travolta or Jackson or Keitel. And instead of Pam Grier or Uma Thurman we are presented with a gaggle of twittering starlets with cellulite.
Another of Tarantino’s traits has been his taste for playfulness with narrative. Flashbacks, putting the end at the beginning, or in the middle. Here he progresses in traditional fashion from A to B, then from A1 to C. If you don’t understand that, don’t worry. It’s not important. Nothing about this film is important.
We are treated to the usual QT camera angles, shots from inside a car engine, women's feet and other symptoms of adolescent film-making. There's the camera circling round the tableful of gabbling girls. Well, it worked in Reservoir Dogs, didn't it? And, ooh, what a long take. Seven minutes, I’m told. How easy to be a master director! Just strap on a steadicam and wander round a table after telling your actresses to chatter inanely. (Surely that stuff wasn't written).
Over the last few weeks I have wallowed in the glories of old cinema classics like Brief Encounter and The Roaring Twenties and seen what might come to be regarded as their equal, Atonement. I have enjoyed well-made movies like Fracture and The Prestige. I have been disappointed but nonetheless entertained by Die Hard 4.0 and 3.10 to Yuma.
And now I can add Death Proof to the list. A movie of the utmost banality. Not only is it rubbish, it is boring rubbish. And if Tarantino’s reply is that it’s a homage to the grindhouse movies of the past, complete with scratches, then it is self-indulgent boring rubbish, a film with its excuses built in.
All right, I’ll grant you a gruesome car crash, a vaguely erotic lap dance, an extended car chase and some impressive stunts. But the talk, the talk, the interminable talk!
Dialogue has always been one of Tarantino’s trademarks and he was rightly praised for it in his breakthrough films like Reservoir Dogs. It was witty, snappy and hilariously profane. It was also delivered by good, charismatic actors. It blended into the action, illuminated character and did nothing to hinder the narrative.
But in Death Proof it is idle, inane chatter between nonentities. A puffy Kurt Russell is no substitute for Travolta or Jackson or Keitel. And instead of Pam Grier or Uma Thurman we are presented with a gaggle of twittering starlets with cellulite.
Another of Tarantino’s traits has been his taste for playfulness with narrative. Flashbacks, putting the end at the beginning, or in the middle. Here he progresses in traditional fashion from A to B, then from A1 to C. If you don’t understand that, don’t worry. It’s not important. Nothing about this film is important.
We are treated to the usual QT camera angles, shots from inside a car engine, women's feet and other symptoms of adolescent film-making. There's the camera circling round the tableful of gabbling girls. Well, it worked in Reservoir Dogs, didn't it? And, ooh, what a long take. Seven minutes, I’m told. How easy to be a master director! Just strap on a steadicam and wander round a table after telling your actresses to chatter inanely. (Surely that stuff wasn't written).
Incidentally it proves why long takes should never be undertaken for their own sake. They work, in the sense that they match style and content, in, for example, Goodfellas and Atonement. Here it merely draws attention to itself and irritates. It’s like listening to the pub bore telling you how great a director Tarantino is.
QT isn't happy unless he's showing off his knowledge of forgotten films or pandering to the movie buffs in the audience. Did you know that Kurt Russell was in The Virginian a couple of times? There’s the rubber duck from Convoy on the bonnet (is that to remind us that even Peckinpah made bad films too?). Russell does a John Wayne impression – what an actor! I expect there were allusions to Japanese children’s TV, but they went over my head. And it was perhaps a mistake to keep mentioning Vanishing Point, with which Death Proof suffers badly in the comparison.
QT isn't happy unless he's showing off his knowledge of forgotten films or pandering to the movie buffs in the audience. Did you know that Kurt Russell was in The Virginian a couple of times? There’s the rubber duck from Convoy on the bonnet (is that to remind us that even Peckinpah made bad films too?). Russell does a John Wayne impression – what an actor! I expect there were allusions to Japanese children’s TV, but they went over my head. And it was perhaps a mistake to keep mentioning Vanishing Point, with which Death Proof suffers badly in the comparison.
Has it any good points? There was one point when, following a sequence made for no apparent reason in black and white, we suddenly switch to colour, and glorious colour it is too. Yellow and orange leap out at you. A good moment.
And then there’s the stunt woman to whom he gives a speaking part, partly as a reward for her work on Kill Bill, partly because we can recognise that in the final car chase it is indeed her doing the heroics. She can’t act, but that is no problem in this movie. And there’s no doubt it’s an exciting sequence.
And then there’s the stunt woman to whom he gives a speaking part, partly as a reward for her work on Kill Bill, partly because we can recognise that in the final car chase it is indeed her doing the heroics. She can’t act, but that is no problem in this movie. And there’s no doubt it’s an exciting sequence.
And there's the music, which helps pass to pass the time.
So how do I sum up: it’s a horror movie without being scary; it’s an action movie full of talk; it’s a black comedy which is not funny; and it’s a revenge story with little feeling of satisfaction, let alone catharsis.
Will Tarantino ever grow up? Will he ever put his undoubted talent with camera, actors and pen to produce anything other than self-regarding concept movies? Many of us thought Jackie Brown marked a new maturity but with Kill Bill and now this, I fear he will never emerge from the movie nursery.
Will Tarantino ever grow up? Will he ever put his undoubted talent with camera, actors and pen to produce anything other than self-regarding concept movies? Many of us thought Jackie Brown marked a new maturity but with Kill Bill and now this, I fear he will never emerge from the movie nursery.
No comments:
Post a Comment