I thought Grindhouse was okay. I got a slightly better than expected film from a director I didn’t like and a somewhat disappointing film from a director I did. The faux trailers were great, but there was nothing about the two features that made me want to give it any more than 3 Netflix stars. The cinematic siblings seem to have been too much for a lot of viewers, and have since been split up and placed in separate DVD homes. I recently paid a visit to one of those homes, in what could be one of the worst analogies of all time.
You know what Quentin Tarantino loves more than anything else? Himself. And he’s trying to sell it to you with every frame of Deathproof. Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty there to like. The soundtrack, as usual. And the death scene x4 at the midway point is worth the price of admission alone. But love? I’d take Deathproof to a cheap motel, but I wouldn’t bring it home to momma.
In Deathproof Tarantino elevates the art of the mundane conversation to dizzying new heights. Just because you pepper a conversation about falling into a ditch with well emphasized “fucks” and shoot it like the diner scene from Reservoir Dogs, that doesn’t make it engaging. Tarantino is beginning to believe his own hype and thinks he can turn any discussion about every day minutiae into brilliance.
And that was my biggest problem with Deathproof. Annoying bitches talking about stuff I didn’t give a shit about. That and Tarantino’s idea of what a “tough black chick” sounds like. You know what I’m talking about. YEAH, MUTHAFUCKA! I’M A BADASS BLACK BITCH AND I DON’T TAKE NO SHIT! HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW, MUTHAFUCKA? YEAH, BITCH!
And watching the extended cut independent of Planet Terror and the rest of Grindhouse didn’t do anything to change my opinion. The missing “lap dance” reel is cool, but everything else just serves to pad the runtime and make the tedious elements seem that much more tedious. And if it weren’t for these elements, I could almost overlook the complete shift in tone during the last 10 minutes of the film. We get it, Quentin, girl power. You’re turning the genre film on its head. You’re a genius.
Good luck finding a boyfriend who sucks toes…
