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What it's about:
Austin's top DJ, the sultry "Jungle Julia" (Sydney Tamiia Poitier), is out on the town with her best buddies Shanna and Arlene (Jordan Ladd and Vanessa Ferlito). What they don't realise is that they're being stalked by Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell), a deranged killer whose weapon of choice is his vintage muscle car.
What we thought of it:
There's something almost quaint about Quentin Tarantino's latest effort. It's a good decade and a half since he shot to stardom with Pulp Fiction, and yet he's still peddling the same pseudo-ironic self-referential shtick, as though the 90s never ended. In fact, Death Proof could almost be a parody of his style, displaying all his usual trademarks at their most extreme.
Originally conceived as part of an ersatz double bill named Grindhouse, Death Proof is intended as a homage to the low budget exploitation films of the 70s and the cinemas that showed them (the "grindhouses"). The other portion, a campy zombie flick named Planet Terror (by all reports a better film), was directed by maverick auteur Robert Rodriguez, a long time compadre of Tarantino's. The pair even commissioned promising young directors to make fake trailers for the "intermission".
After this three hour experiment failed to make waves at the US box offices, the worldwide distributors decided to split up the films into more manageable chunks and bulked each of them out into two hour features. Whether this destroyed the artistic merit of the project is debatable, but I'm pretty sure Tarantino's half of the deal wouldn't be any more inspiring simply because it was snuggling self-consciously with a zombie movie. We'll have to wait for the DVD to be sure though.
Marketing stunts aside, Death Proof may be Tarantino's emptiest and most self-indulgent film to date. It's full of all his usual quirks: the winks and nudges to every film he's ever seen; the snappy, sarcastic dialogue that turns every character into Quentin and; of course, the sudden bursts of ultra-violence.
It's also a crunchy mouthful of the exploitation cinema that he and Rodriguez spent their childhood's absorbed in. With its muscle cars, big breasted beauties and retro soundtrack, the film captures some of the delicious, uninhibited sinfulness that made 70s cinema so vital. And, however annoying he may be, Tarantino's powers of storytelling and his deft touch with camera and pacing make the film at the very least watchable, if not memorable.
That said, few people except hardcore Tarantino fans will walk away from Death Proof feeling satisfied. For all its visceral appeal, the film still feels staged and manicured, like an exhibit in a museum of trash culture. As soon as you start to really enjoy it, there's Quentin, nudging you in the ribs asking "Did ya get that reference? Did ya?" And that's always been the thing about Tarantino – he's obsessed with paying homage to his influences but somehow always ends up paying homage to himself.
- Alistair Fairweather
Austin's top DJ, the sultry "Jungle Julia" (Sydney Tamiia Poitier), is out on the town with her best buddies Shanna and Arlene (Jordan Ladd and Vanessa Ferlito). What they don't realise is that they're being stalked by Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell), a deranged killer whose weapon of choice is his vintage muscle car.
What we thought of it:
There's something almost quaint about Quentin Tarantino's latest effort. It's a good decade and a half since he shot to stardom with Pulp Fiction, and yet he's still peddling the same pseudo-ironic self-referential shtick, as though the 90s never ended. In fact, Death Proof could almost be a parody of his style, displaying all his usual trademarks at their most extreme.
Originally conceived as part of an ersatz double bill named Grindhouse, Death Proof is intended as a homage to the low budget exploitation films of the 70s and the cinemas that showed them (the "grindhouses"). The other portion, a campy zombie flick named Planet Terror (by all reports a better film), was directed by maverick auteur Robert Rodriguez, a long time compadre of Tarantino's. The pair even commissioned promising young directors to make fake trailers for the "intermission".
After this three hour experiment failed to make waves at the US box offices, the worldwide distributors decided to split up the films into more manageable chunks and bulked each of them out into two hour features. Whether this destroyed the artistic merit of the project is debatable, but I'm pretty sure Tarantino's half of the deal wouldn't be any more inspiring simply because it was snuggling self-consciously with a zombie movie. We'll have to wait for the DVD to be sure though.
Marketing stunts aside, Death Proof may be Tarantino's emptiest and most self-indulgent film to date. It's full of all his usual quirks: the winks and nudges to every film he's ever seen; the snappy, sarcastic dialogue that turns every character into Quentin and; of course, the sudden bursts of ultra-violence.
It's also a crunchy mouthful of the exploitation cinema that he and Rodriguez spent their childhood's absorbed in. With its muscle cars, big breasted beauties and retro soundtrack, the film captures some of the delicious, uninhibited sinfulness that made 70s cinema so vital. And, however annoying he may be, Tarantino's powers of storytelling and his deft touch with camera and pacing make the film at the very least watchable, if not memorable.
That said, few people except hardcore Tarantino fans will walk away from Death Proof feeling satisfied. For all its visceral appeal, the film still feels staged and manicured, like an exhibit in a museum of trash culture. As soon as you start to really enjoy it, there's Quentin, nudging you in the ribs asking "Did ya get that reference? Did ya?" And that's always been the thing about Tarantino – he's obsessed with paying homage to his influences but somehow always ends up paying homage to himself.
- Alistair Fairweather
