The King of Pulp

"I don't believe in elitism. I don't think the audience is this dumb person lower than me. I am the audience."

Karaoke. Derivative. Imitation. These are just some of the words often used to describe the work of Quentin Tarantino, and if you simply take what's on screen at face value, that's likely what you'll get. But once you begin to peel back the layers and search for the true center of a Tarantino picture, you'll see that the window dressing (which is always gorgeous and occasionally sublime) is the smallest piece of the puzzle. There's a purpose to all of it. No question that Tarantino is obsessed with film and those that inspired him. Instead of simply taking images and ideas of the past and throwing them up on screen, Tarantino gives these genres and conventions he cherishes a new and exciting sense of purpose. With each picture, he is able to find a way to re-invent existing forms of cinema and most amazingly, he often does it better than it was done originally.

Tarantino's story is the kind that any person who wants to make movies would love to have. He worked in a video store, watched movies constantly, and talked movies constantly. Saying he watched movies, though, is a very loose way of putting it. Tarantino absorbed movies; he soaked in every element of their being and tried to figure out how he could express himself through what others had done (at a recent screenwriting workshop, the key advice was to take the ideas from other movies and find a way to make them your own). He learned how to be a filmmaker by doing nothing more than watching films. While that approach certainly might not work for everyone, it worked for him. And since he had certain genres he loved, his career began with one of the most exhausted phrases around: write what you know.



Getting in good with the right people helped get his debut feature, Reservoir Dogs, made. The movie revolves around a group of strangers who are brought together to pull off a diamond heist and as expected, it goes horribly wrong. What stands out most about the picture is the amount of confidence exhibited. Most directors choosing this as their first project would focus on the amount of gritty violence they could get onscreen. Hell, they'd probably open the picture with the climactic showdown. Instead of doing what the audience expects from this type of feature, Tarantino opens with a scene of dialogue. And it's not just a conversation between two people, but a round table of people. To take things a step further, instead of giving us tough guys spouting off a bunch of macho bullshit, Tarantino has these men, people I probably wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, discussing everything from the meaning of Madonna's Like a Virgin to the reason why you should tip at a restaurant.

It's a spectacular way to take your audience off guard. We get sucked in by these hardened criminals having an everyday conversation and then, after we've gotten comfortable, Tarantino throws in the big whammy by taking us from the safe and relaxed environment of a restaurant, to the crammed and claustrophobic setting of a car (complete with a bleeding and screaming man in the back seat). In between the two scenes, during the opening credit sequence, Tarantino gives the audience the first of what would become one of his trademarks: the soundtrack. The song during the credits of the picture is a clear way to establish the mood of the piece. Before it fades to black for the credit reel, there has to a moment where the music accompanies a series of shots of the guys on their way to work: cool, sleek, confident. Had that been the first thing we saw in the movie, it would have felt like a gimmick. Since Tarantino let us spend some time with his characters so we could get a feel for who they were, this payoff is earned.

Reservoir Dogs set up a theme that would run through all of his projects, that of the likable criminal. All of the characters, aside from maybe undercover cop Mr. Orange (Tim Roth), are bad guys. They're honorable, sure, but they make their living robbing, stealing and hurting others. To Tarantino, that doesn't matter. He still wants us to like them. Even more than that, he wants us to be a part of their world. The camera is clearly an active observer in the picture, in turn making it a character all its own. Beginning with the scene in the car, which is full of quick pans, it's obvious that we are meant to be like a nervous third party. Tarantino's style is inviting due to long takes and limited movement. His camera is often leery of getting too close to what's being shared between the characters. It's almost as if he's trying to keep us out of harm's way. During the movie's most violent moment, the camera actually pans away until it's over.

The movie introduced us to Tarantino's love for dialogue. I already mentioned opening the picture with a full dialogue scene, which is a difficult thing to do unless you know you can pull in your audience. Tarantino does, and he continues to stretch the idea that the dialogue will drive the movie as it progresses. The main setting in the picture is an ugly, abandoned warehouse. At first, we might wonder why he would choose such an unsavory looking place to have the key action occur, but the dialogue moves so fast (it is the action) we are able to forget where we are. And by telling the story in a non-linear fashion (another Tarantino trademark), it keeps our involvement peaked since there are so many pieces to the puzzle still not on the table.

There's never any question that we are listening to dialogue that has been scripted. A statement like that is usually grounds for criticism, but not in the case of Tarantino, since his characters say things worth listening to. To go a step further, what the characters say is as important as how they say it. As good as the dialogue may be, if it is not delivered in the right context, it will come off like a bunch of colorful phrases. When it comes to casting, Tarantino has a knack for finding the right people to bring his words to life, and often it's an actor we would never expect. In the case of Reservoir Dogs, the award goes to Tim Roth, who was relatively unknown at the time.

If Reservoir Dogs suffers from a weakness, it's that the characters' constant yelling gets exhausting in spots. Since everyone in the movie is confused and in suspense about who survived the robbery, there's a lot of tension between those who got out. Tarantino tries to rattle the nerves by having the characters in each other faces, and it gets a lot of mileage early on but loses some of its punch during the last third. Through it all, we do wonder who will emerge as the hero, since Tarantino has made us fond of these characters. Interestingly, especially when you look at his future works, no one earns redemption here. Every good deed, no matter how large, ends in punishment. I'm not saying this was a bad decision because, true to its director's form, it stays in tune with the genre from which it was stemmed.



I was a senior in high school when Pulp Fiction came out. Due to its victory at Cannes (and from watching Siskel & Ebert, of course), I had heard lots about the movie, but I still don't think I was even close to prepared for the experience I got. The best way I can sum up the movie is by comparing it to Jack Rabbit Slim's: jam packed with nostalgia. When Tarantino sat down to write Pulp Fiction, he must have used a checklist of every element he loves about the movies. I can't recall another movie I have seen that crosses over into so many genres and does it with the amount of balance that Pulp Fiction does. When I saw it for the first time, it damn near blindsided me. I walked out of it wondering what the hell I had just seen, and god knows I was more than prepared to go back again right away (I went back to the theatre nine more times).

The movie set an immeasurably high bar for other up and coming filmmakers. So many of them tried to duplicate what Tarantino had done, with disastrous results. Tarantino's imitators really ended up becoming exactly what his critics had falsely labeled him of being. Young directors everywhere tried to jump on the bandwagon to see if they make their criminals talk and act as cool as Tarantino's, but none of them ever came close. It's not a stretch for me to say that Pulp Fiction is the most influential movie of my generation.

The movie's opening sequence takes what Reservoir Dogs did and ups the stakes. The first movie began with a conversation between lots of people covering a number of different topics. This time, it's two people, sitting at a booth, discussing one thing. Tarantino throws us into the middle of the conversation, so we will be eager to find out what these people are talking about and hopefully catch up. His shots are mostly perspective, so we feel as if we are being spoken to (perspective will become an important tool for him from this point forward). And he ends the scene with an unexpected burst of hostility that immediately lets us know that in this movie, anything is possible.

Tarantino extends on this idea with his choice of songs during the credits. It starts with Misirlou by Dick Dale and then leads into Jungle Boogie by Kool and the Gang. The first is intense but catchy, while the second shifts gears completely and is fun and laid back. After the credits are over, we don't know what to expect. The sky's the limit. The second conversation, which is between two hitmen on their way to do a job, is an even trickier scene to pull off because it's two people talking in a car. As soon as we hear what they're talking about (Quarter Pounder with cheese in Paris, mayonnaise on french fries), the setting becomes less problematic and interest shifts to how Tarantino is introducing the characters. The shot begins from outside the passenger window so we are able to see both characters. This shot holds until we have gotten involved in the conversation and at that point, Tarantino cuts to a series of intimate close ups. There's no need for a comfort zone anymore. We're a part of these lives now.

Tarantino revisits some of his camera styles from Reservoir Dogs, such as the camera lingering at one end of a hallway while the characters talk at the other end. It's a brilliant device because once again, it makes the camera a character in the scene and helps the viewer forget that they are sitting in a theater, "watching" a movie. This is taken a step further in the same scene once the two hitmen are standing in front of a door, still talking before they knock. The camera is positioned behind them, but it is positioned low enough that we can't see over their shoulders. We're like the awkward third wheel, stuck in the back with no choice but to listen and wonder what could possibly be on the other side of the door.

It's a brilliant slow build up to some kind of action, and once the hitmen enter the apartment, Tarantino shows his natural capability for making a scene funny and scary at the same time. The people they've come to visit know they're in deep shit but one of the hitmen, Jules (Samuel L. Jackson), takes the time to have a casual conversation with them, as if having meaningless chit chat will make it easier to get the information he needs. The dialogue, as fun as it is, also functions as a device to help build the suspense. We are enjoying the hell out of what is being said, at the same time wondering when Jules, whose eyes look like they could start a forest fire, is going to explode.

There are a handful of scenes in Pulp Fiction that do this, the best being when Vincent (John Travolta) takes his boss's wife, Mia (Uma Thurman), out to dinner. Their uncomfortable and shy attraction (all built through glances) leads us to believe the suspense is going to revolve around whether anything sexual is going to happen between them, but Tarantino never takes the easy route. Instead, he has her overdose snorting heroin, leading Vincent to take her to his dealer's house to see if he knows how to revive her. The whole scene could have played as melodrama but instead, Tarantino milks uneasy laughs out of the argument between Vincent and his dealer in hopes we will let our guard down, leaving us totally unprepared for what will have to be done to save Mia. The cutting of the last part of the scene, where Vincent has to plunge a hypodermic needle into Mia's chest, is nothing short of ingenious.

The situation with Vincent shows a running thread in Pulp Fiction: bad people doing things and getting in over their heads. Of course, Tarantino seems more interested in the fact he's putting these characters in situations where they need our sympathy. It's a testament to his craft as a writer and a director that we actually care what happens (and we don't want a bad outcome). He throws his characters into creatively bizarre predicaments, such as Vincent dealing with Mia's OD. The best of the bunch is a hilariously nightmarish sequence where Butch (Bruce Willis) unexpectedly runs into gangster Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames) after screwing him out of a lot of money. The chase that follows gets them both kidnapped and thrown into an underground S & M dungeon.

I believe Tarantino chooses actors for the way they talk as much as the way they look. He is a master at finding people whose voices draw us in long before we see their faces. Look at the scene where we first meet Butch as he's getting propositioned by Marsellus. The first part of the scene is one take of Butch's face as Marsellus talks to him. Eventually, we are able to forget that Butch is even there and are wondering who is talking to him (all we know is that he sounds like someone who is not to be messed with). To heighten our anticipation, Tarantino then cuts to a close up of the back of Marsellus's bald head, which stands out due to a band aid positioned near his neck. Even after getting put through the ringer, Tarantino does not let us see Marsellus's face until much later in the movie.

You can tell by watching the performances that casting is a joy for Tarantino. He's been lucky enough to work with whoever he's wanted, mainly because joining one of his projects is like being invited onto a personal playground. This approach has led to career best work and career revivals, beginning of course with John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. Did anyone think such a thing would be possible? The key scene for Travolta, of course, comes in the center of the movie when Mia signs him up for a twist contest. This goes back to where we started, about how Tarantino is not an imitator. Instead of having Travolta dance as we remember, he lets the actor cut loose, and the scene (which could have been a cheap novelty act) plays as further build up of sexual tension for the two dance partners.

When talking about Reservoir Dogs, I mentioned that there is no redemption for the characters. You could say then, that Tarantino grew up with Pulp Fiction, because even though these people do things that should make them void of being saved, Tarantino gives most of them a chance to see the light. The ones that choose not to meet an unfortunate end (look at Vincent's denial of God's intervention after being shot at and not hit). The willingness to believe his characters deserve this type of salvation shows enormous maturity for Tarantino as a filmmaker. He could have easily taken the same route as his debut and made all of his characters go down in a poetic blaze of glory. Instead, since we've invested as much in them as he has, they are each given a choice.



After the enormous success of Pulp Fiction, it only seems appropriate Tarantino would settle down and try to do something different for his follow up. Of course, since there was a world of hype surrounding what he would do next, it was almost destined to be a disappointment for most of his fans on principal. That statement is why it makes perfect sense that the haters of Pulp Fiction (and most anything else Tarantino has done) really like Jackie Brown; it's easily the most un-Tarantino of Tarantino's movies. Sure, it's still got the rapid fire dialogue and the non-linear story telling, but it also has a concrete plot, a decent and honest character, and a love story.

The movie began a major turning point for Tarantino that has stood front and center in every movie he's made since this one: it has a strong female character. That's not to say there aren't still tough men, but they prove to be no match for the woman standing in front of them. In Tarantino's world, if you fuck with a woman, you will pay dearly. Jackie (Pam Grier) doesn't look like she could be intimidating when we first meet her during the movie's opening credits, which are set to the smooth sound of Bobby Womack's Across 110th Street. The vibe is more laid back than what we're used to, so the last thing we expect is that we're about to be taken into a story of crime and double crossings. And Jackie's relaxed look makes us wonder if the character is going to be a push over. Since this is Tarantino, though, that is wishful thinking.

Jackie is, like Tarantino's bad male characters, someone who has gotten in over her head. The difference is she's not a bad person; she's just mixed up with some shady people. What both sides of the law don't yet know is that even if she agrees to play ball with their schemes, things will not turn out like they expected. Jackie's much smarter than she pretends to be, and it's to Tarantino's credit that, while Jackie does have a sassy attitude, she's not interested in kicking ass and taking names. If anything, she just wants to get out of the whole complicated situation without getting arrested or killed. This, of course, will prove to be her redemption when she comes out the other side.

The male characters in the movie underestimate her. The cops think their tough guy act will scare her into cooperating, and the man she's illegally bringing in money for, Ordell (Samuel L. Jackson, more or less playing Jules again), believes he has the upper hand. The first half of the movie consists of signature Tarantino: the large gallery of characters and the lightning sharp dialogue. Most involving is the dynamic that grows between Jackie and her bail bondsman, Max Cherry (Robert Forster). He's the only person she can trust because as far as she can tell, he's the only one not out to screw her over. He's just a lonely guy trying to make an honest living, which is precisely why she can confide in him. He's the first male character in a Tarantino movie who isn't a criminal of some sort.

The cast in the movie is the most impressive Tarantino has had behind Pulp Fiction. Aside from Grier, Jackson, and Forster, the lineup also includes Robert DeNiro, Michael Keaton, and Bridget Fonda. Each actor gets at least one memorable moment, but aside from Grier's subtle performance, the warmest surprise is Robert Forster's portrayal as Max (he's this movie's Travolta in the comeback category). His relationship with Jackie builds as she plans her scheme against the slippery Ordell, earning in the end a tragic kiss that is the most poignant moment we are likely to see in a Tarantino picture. Unexpected? Hell yes, and that's what makes it all the more rewarding. Also to Tarantino's credit is the way he uses a song by the Delfonics to show the importance of Jackie to Max.

Technically, Tarantino stays on track. The movie is filled with deliciously long takes where once again the camera acts as an observer. The dialogue during the early scenes makes us forget that the shots are lingering because the topics at hand are as interesting as they are aimless. Tarantino gets a kick out of just letting his creations interact with each other, so at that point in the picture, I was fine with the fact they weren't really necessary to the plot. However, once the second half starts, the movie becomes more concerned with the intricate details of Jackie's plan, leading the whole affair to run on a bit too long. It's for this reason that I think Tarantino works best when he's not trying to focus on the unfolding of a story. The rhythm of his dialogue loses some of its flare once it is all about getting to the finish.

I love the fact Tarantino made Jackie Brown early in his career. Not because I dislike it, by any means, but because I think it gave him a chance to experiment with elements we wouldn't have expected. I'd be thrilled to see him make another movie like it in hopes that next time, the love story will be a bigger piece of the pie than the crime story. That is, unless the two sides are married as well as they were in True Romance. Ever wonder what it would have been like if Tarantino had directed it?



As kick ass as it would be to see the Kill Bill movies put together, it makes as much sense to keep them apart. While the movies are similar thematically, the approach to each is so radically different that I feel the combination could ruin the effect they achieve individually. It's sad that so many accused Kill Bill Vol. 1 of being nothing more than empty style, because I think they've missed the point. Yes, the style is the substance in a lot of ways, but what's buried into the style is exuberant and thorny. The first time I saw it, I simply let myself get wowed by the imagery. The second and third time I had a blast finding the sly treasures Tarantino has buried within.

A great filmmaker is always one step ahead, which is one of the reasons why Kill Bill Vol. 1 is a perfect set up for the movie that follows it. As usual, Tarantino has plenty of tricks up his sleeves. The movie opens with an effective and discomforting close up of a woman's sweaty face as she is being spoken to by a man who obviously has sinister plans for her. The voice is stern and menacing, getting back to what I said in regards to Pulp Fiction about keeping a face off screen and establishing a character based on how they talk. The dialogue is brutal, making it appropriate that it ends with a literal splatter of blood.

And then Tarantino throws us right into the action, told out of order of course. Despite this, the post credits scene sets the stage for the most important theme of the Kill Bill movies: motherhood. As The Bride (Uma Thurman) arrives to take out the first member (a woman who has gone from warrior to housewife) of the squad that tried to kill her, she walks on to a suburban lawn covered with toys. Once they begin fighting in the house, there's a shot of each woman at the edges of the frame and a school bus in between them. And there we have the only tie that could bind them. Of course, a child enters the house, so the maternal side takes over for the enemy but for The Bride, the fact this woman is a mother is of little consequence. She was pregnant when they left her for dead and as a result, she believes her child is dead. Even though she should feel bad about leaving this child without a mother, The Bride's compassion is replaced by honesty. This is what she has to do.

Tarantino has taken his idea of the strong, confident woman to a completely new level and turned men into monsters with little chance of redemption. This applies mostly to Bill (David Carradine), her former lover, who she is prepared to kill without remorse for taking the life she wanted to have (without him) away. But it first comes into focus when The Bride wakes from a coma and kills the creepy hospital orderly who raped her (and let others rape her) while she was asleep. It is here that the movie introduces the concept of women upstaging men with its blatant use of phallic symbols doing serious damage. It starts small by showing a mosquito sucking on The Bride's arm, and then grows to a needle, and then later becomes a sword. For Tarantino, having the weapon (or instrument, as it is referred to in the picture, since one must be skilled to use it) is not as important as the damage it does. Every blow from The Bride's sword is an act of penetration (or castration), and note how the blood sprays, almost as if the wound is ejaculating. Tarantino has found a way to take the idea of blood being baptismal and flipped it over.

There's a great deal of slicing and dicing in Vol.1. Tarantino's other movies have had their share of violence, but it was always handled in a way that actual contact between weapon and victim was kept off screen (or out of frame). This time he goes for broke, staging an elaborate fight between The Bride and a fighting team called The Crazy 88's. It's the first time his camera has been brave enough to want to see the damage being done. In other words, The Bride's cause is one worth witnessing in every gory detail. Interesting then, that the camera does not feel as much like a character as it did in the other pictures. In addition, Kill Bill Vol. 1 is the first visually appealing Tarantino movie. It's filled with lovely and bright popping colors, and he works with every shot composition he can conjure up. His framing is thoroughly creative throughout, often letting supposedly meaningless things in the shot take center stage over the central action (look at the climactic fight scene in the snow and see where he places a fountain).

In the midst of all the experimentation with the camera, Tarantino even throws in an animated sequence to tell a back story (which is appropriate given it is through the eyes of a child, so it needs to appear larger than life). The entire thing plays like a Greek tragedy, with Tarantino using blood in a more poetic way than I've seen in quite some time. It's a tribute to his attention to detail, the idea that every single piece of a movie is important. Nothing is on screen just to fill up space.

Tarantino's classic themes stay intact, that of bad people with dignity. Even when Bill discovers The Bride is still alive and could easily have her killed, he decides to let her live so she can have the opportunity to track him down. He knows well and good that she deserves her revenge, and his death will be her redemption. Plus, as we find out in the movie's splendid final scene cliffhanger, her daughter is still alive. It's a fantastic bookend to the movie's beginning and an opening into the core of what Vol. 2 will be about, even though its tone is quite different.



Tarantino pulled a classic bait and switch on the audience with the Kill Bill movies. Normally, we'd expect the first part to be dialogue heavy and the second part, the blood soaked climax. Doing this, though, would have taken away the potency of the pictures and stripped away The Bride's humanity. By reversing the way the movies play, Tarantino wisely gives us a chance to develop sympathy for The Bride and truly feel that she deserves her revenge by the end. It'd be easy to say we already know she deserves it due to the way Vol. 1 opens, and a lesser filmmaker would say seeing what happened to her is enough. But Tarantino cares more about her than that. He wants us to understand who she is.

Vol. 1 represents the first time Tarantino has let images speak more than the words. It's rewarding because he is such a splendid craftsman (and many of the images do speak as beautifully as his dialogue), and maybe the lack of memorable dialogue was the point. Vol. 1 could have functioned as a tease so Tarantino could unleash what he does best for the finale. The picture opens with a rehearsal for The Bride's wedding to her new husband, a man who has no idea who she really is. When she walks out of the church to get some air, we are treated to the sight of Bill for the first time as he plays a flute. It's a powerful sight, because without him even speaking, we're able to sense his sadness and anger at seeing that The Bride is still alive.

It is at this moment that we understand why he shot her. Bill is not a nice man, so wanting to kill her for breaking his heart seems like the route he would take (as he explains to her at the end of the picture). He knows this woman inside out, and knows above all that a "normal" life is not an option for her. There's a terrific flow to their dialogue as they make up for lost time. Bill is The Bride's family, which provides the first half of the bookends that the movie will hold (the other half comes at the conclusion when The Bride re-unites with her daughter). Along with motherhood, the love and acceptance of family is the key to Vol. 2. The conversation between Bill and The Bride and the act that follows is the perfect illustration of how the ones we are closest to are often the ones that make us the most vulnerable and are most capable of betraying us.

Tarantino cleverly makes what Bill did to The Bride seem like an act of love. Late in the movie, we learn from Bill's father figure that his reaction to her leaving him was a reflection on the way he was raised. It's amazing how well Bill's compassion is shown considering how little he is in the movie. Look for instance, at the moment we see the sword Bill gave his brother, complete with an engraving that says, "To my brother Budd, the only man I ever loved." The sword is, as Bill puts it, "priceless," and to the owner it was, but not in the traditional sense of the word. To see an even different angle, observe the way Bill carefully makes a sandwich for his daughter while he tells a story (the attention to detail is what counts).

When The Bride finally reaches Bill and sees that their daughter is still alive, her main objective is to keep the child from taking the same path she did. The first time they see each other, Bill and the little girl "pretend" to shoot The Bride and they all "play" dead. This is the perception their daughter has of life and death. As we soon hear when Bill describes how she found out death was real after her goldfish fell on the floor, it's evident she knows there is a difference, but still lacks the complexity to understand how permanent it is. The compelling idea in these scenes is realizing that each parent would probably take a different approach when explaining a subject they each know so much about. How do you make a child understand the finality of death, but even more so, how do you rationalize it when it's part of you job?

Learning she's still a mother changes everything for The Bride. As we've seen throughout, there's no doubt she still has no problem killing Bill, even if he is the father. But it lets us know just how important the idea of being a mother was to her (she was willing to give up everything). The best scene in the movie to me is the moment The Bride finds out she is pregnant while on an assignment. The assissin sent to kill her is a woman, so The Bride knows she can gain some sympathy since she is concerned for the well being of her unborn child. It's a fabulous moment, one of the best Tarantino has ever written. It is here more than ever that we are able to see that he's so much more than just a "genre" filmmaker. This is a writer who with a true understanding of what makes us human.

I think Kill Bill Vol. 2 is as great as anything Tarantino has done so far precisely for that reason. This is the picture where he, more so even than in Jackie Brown, wrote great dialogue as he always does and gives it to characters who could possibly exist in a world outside of the movies. I'm not saying it doesn't feel scripted, but it does threaten to finally break the wall down between fantasy and reality. He hasn't quite done that yet. I don't know if he ever will (and that's not a criticism). The thought of not getting to hear another speech similar to Bill's theory on Superman would be criminal.

I've spent all this time talking about the thematic elements of Vol. 2 and failed to focus at all on its style. While it is different than the last movie and the pacing is the exact opposite, Tarantino does not slack in the technical department. His roots are still evident throughout, specifically during a highly entertaining sequence where The Bride trains with legendary martial arts master, Pai Mei (Gordon Liu). The sequence is brilliantly stuck in the middle of The Bride being buried alive (which is set up with horror movie framing) and then having a literal re-birth (an homage to zombie pictures).

As expected, the movie ends with The Bride fulfilling the title, although it doesn't happen as we might have thought. Fitting with the tone of the movie, the final showdown is based more on being clever than violent. It provides a surprisingly tender exit for Bill, a man who can't help what he is, but doesn't deserve to live for it (you could almost say that accepting his fate is his redemption). As The Bride proves in the end, anyone can change. You just have to find the right reason. This is easily the richest movie of Tarantino's career so far. Like Pulp Fiction, it explores many genres and does so with great dialogue. For the first time though, it feels like, aside from transcending the genres, Tarantino is giving his characters a greater sense of purpose.



After the drastic leap taken with Kill Bill Vol. 2, Tarantino got to go back to his roots once again when he teamed up Robert Rodriguez to make Grindhouse. Even though his goal was to make a straight up genre picture, it is still loaded with subtext. Interesting that Tarantino decided to split his movie, Death Proof, into two parts in order to make the characters in the first half the victims and the second half the heroes. This is necessary, of course, so we can see the damage the villain, Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell), is capable of doing. We already know how much Tarantino loves women pushed to the edge, and with Death Proof, there isn't just one the evil man has to deal with, but three.

The first part of the movie is shot like a grungy '70s horror show and Stuntman Mike is introduced like a slasher. His first appearance on screen showcases only his eyes, as he is a voyeur intent on killing (as he sees it) defenseless women. It's a nice touch that he puts in eye drops before getting close to his prey (it feels like he's trying to mask the evil inside). Before actually meeting Mike, Tarantino introduces us to four women who are heading out for a night on the town. Their dialogue consists of banter about relationships, hook ups, and getting drunk. In other words, topics that will make them perfect candidates to die.

Stuntman Mike is a classic movie stalker. He's patient as he spends the whole night sitting at a bar watching these girls get wasted and vulnerable. He doesn't seem like he is really up for a challenge; the more off guard the victims are, the more fun he will have with the kill. Tarantino sets him up in the most disgusting way possible: by showing close ups of his mouth as he eats nachos. Once Mike opens his mouth to speak, it is immediately obvious what a charming guy he is (even the bartender knows him really well). The movie sets the four women up as lonely people drifting through life without a care in the world, which is probably why Mike chose them in the first place. Tarantino is able to draw us into their isolation and the sense of distance they have from men by showing text messages that reek of disappointment. And is it is a stretch to say that the rain surrounding the bar is a device to keep them from escaping before Mike's had a chance to study them?

Not surprising that the men in Death Proof are weak (yes, even Stuntman Mike as we learn during the second half). Everything they say is stupid and arrogant and involves getting a girl drunk so they can screw her (one guy even whines about wanting to make out). As with most slashers, Stuntman Mike's sexual frustration is the reason why he kills. It's eluded to when he orders a virgin pina colada and the bar tender reconfirms by pointing at him and saying "virgin." The reason he is at this particular bar is because one of the girls, due to an announcement on the radio, has to give a lapdance to the man who recites a certain poem to her. Mike does it, of course, and she honors it because he's smooth and creepy in equal measure. The lap dance scene is classic Tarantino: it's sexy and has a feeling of impending doom, because we know that Mike is enjoying the fact that, before long, this free spirited girl will be dead.

Stuntman Mike's phallic weapon is his car. He gets off on the thrill of using his tool as an instrument of death (appropriate the hood ornament is a duck, since Mike enjoys toying with his victims, as we see more in the second half). The kill scene of the four girls is gruesome and tragic. Tarantino shows the crash from each girl's perspective so it's as if we are experiencing it with each one of them.

The girls in the second half of the movie are the opposite of Mike's first victims. Their early scenes are the same: four women, in a car, discussing relationships. But instead of being aimless and carefree, these women are confident and tough. Two of them are stunt women and enjoy the high they get from driving a fast car. They trick a redneck into letting them test drive his 1970 Dodge Challenger so they can play a game called "Ship's Mast" where one person gets on the hood and lays on their back while holding onto belts tied to the side view mirrors. Mike notices them long before this of course, but his interest peaks when he sees that they, like him, live on the edge.

Mike goes after them while they're playing their game and adds another level of danger by ramming into them. To him, they speak the same language, so trying to run their car off the road is the equivalent to foreplay (you can tell how turned on he gets every time his car makes contact with theirs). As expected, he's not used to anyone else taking the upper hand, so when these women retaliate by pushing back, Mike goes from confident to cowardly. He's never had to be the victim. They come back after him with a phallic weapon of their own (a metal rod) and then proceed to beat the ever living crap out of him. His punishment is the price for thinking all women are defenseless. Stuntman Mike's fate goes back to the era of Reservoir Dogs in the sense that he is incapable of being redeemed.

The dialogue in the second half of the movie is not quite as involving as it was in the first, mainly because the topics of conversation are the same as they were before. What stands out is that Tarantino ditches the dirty look and goes for a more polished one, almost as if he is saying it's time to get down to business. The chase scene between Mike and the women is excitingly staged, further proving that Tarantino is as good at directing action as he is at writing dialogue. The energy of the last twenty minutes of Death Proof easily made me forget the fact my attention was beginning to waver during the dialogue at the start of the second half.

The biggest reason to see Death Proof is for Kurt Russell. While not necessarily in need of a comeback, Tarantino has given him the juiciest role he's had in ages. Nothing is quite as hilarious as watching his breakdown once the tables are turned as he cries and begs for mercy. It's obvious how big of a fan Tarantino is if you observe the t-shirt on the wall in the bar during the first half (I'll give you a hint: Jack Burton). Russell milks the part for all it's worth; seeing him in such prime form made me wish Tarantino would cast every actor I love in one of his movies, even if it's a minor role.



I noticed as I got further into Tarantino's career, I began to talk less about the technical aspects of his movies and more about the content. That is not to say he hasn't progressed technically; what it means is that he has evolved drastically as a writer and a director. He makes movies he will enjoy watching, and as he's continued to see and love more movies, it has helped him become a more skilled and interesting filmmaker. He is continuing to expand and improve on what he has learned from the screen. With each movie, he keeps finding ways to revolutionize the very foundation he gets his inspiration from. Will he ever make a movie that isn't stemmed from the genres that have influenced him the most? At this point in his career, it's hard to say. He is so damn good at what it does, I can't argue with the path he's chosen. All I really know is that I don't think there's a filmmaker who understands my celluloid passion better then he does.


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