(2007, 191 min) An unambitious epic, a carefully orchestrated piece of trash, an auteurist brain dump... whatever you want to call it, this unapologetic pulp is nonetheless the most entertaining three hours you're likely to spend at the cinema this year. If you're going to watch two brilliant directors squander their talent, this is probably the way to go.
In watching Tarantino and Rodriguez recreate the seedy Times Square style of late-night filmgoing, it's important to remember that there were no rules in these movies. It was a genre created out of economics, not form, with budgets so threadbare that only two results were reliable: There would be exploitation, and there would be peculiar auterist visions that creep out, with producers interested more in churning the fare out than reshooting and making the films perfect. On those counts, Grindhouse succeeds beautifully.
In a way, Robert Rodriguez has been making grindhouse films for most of his career. From the fake trailer for Danny Trejo in Machete (please turn this into a feature!) to the obsession with balls and pus in Planet Terror, he obviously would have been right at home in the '70s. Yet he uses digital photography and special effects to great effect, and has a blast turning as many actors as possible into bubbling pools of blood. Rose McGowan stays in wry, campy "Charmed" mode as a peglegged stripper (strike that... go-go dancer) with unlikely superpowers. And how wonderful is it to see Jeff Fahey, Michael Biehn and Josh Brolin taking on iconic roles so late in their careers.
The trailers that follow are pure brilliance. Rob Zombie's Werewolf Women of the SS has an air of familiarity about it... hard to believe no one thought of it sooner. Edgar Wright's Don't would make William Castle proud. And Eli Roth's deeply sick Thanksgiving makes Texas Chainsaw look like a Beach Party movie. Ironic that critics are eating up this trailer, whereas if it were actually a feature they would tear it to pieces.
Quentin Tarantino took a different tack, making a self-indulgent car-chase movie in the Monte Hellman realm. And if Two Lane Blacktop was self-indulgent, at least it was never boring. Unfortunately, Quentin decided to make about 70 minutes of his 80-minute movie filled with realistically mundane dialogue, mostly surrounding young women with little to say (Godard he ain't). Thank goodness when his girls get on the road, chased by a merciless Kurt Russell, he delivers the most exciting car chase since Ronin. Yet he's so enamored with his own images, he neglects to scratch up the print in the same way as Rodriguez. Good thing there are no rules, eh?
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