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DEATHPROOF

We’re back in late night territory. After Tarantino’s idiosyncratic tour into genre move-making with the two instalments of Kill Bill he’s deferred the big war film for more pulp pleasure. Will this be a test too far on multiplex patience, will his status as the populist king of auteur finally go? That Tarantino, he fell off into self-indulgence….

Well, the overwhelming opinion of critics on DeathProof make it sound like an anal regression into 70s B-movie slashers. The kind of homage Tarantino himself is pleased as punch with, him and a few others who spend a bit too much time watching obscure films that frankly weren’t much good when they were made and haven’t got any better with the passing of the years. 

The kind of outright dismissal Tarantino has provoked shows up how apparently intelligent and experienced viewers can so badly miss the mark.. As much as it makes sense to look at the content, he has a mastery over form which most other film-makers would immediately realise. In the space of one scene Tarantino surveys the new tone of brutalism in horror from the standpoint of its origins in 70s exploitation flicks with a poetic beauty quite absent from anything in Hostel, from his protégé, Eli Roth. This is mindful of the need to entertain but it is a masterclass! Not to say its flawless in the course of its 90 minutes. When it first opened as Grindhouse partnered with Robert Rodriguez’ Planet Terror, bemusement ensued when the end credits rolled and the audience walked out unaware that Death-Proof was the next film. Harvey Weinstein steps in (again) and the result was the end of the Grindhouse double-bill and the separate release of two films which meant Quentin had to tinker with Death-Proof and increase its running time. Death-Proof gets padded out with dialogue which somewhere around the one hour mark seems quite content to keep things on a lay-by as a build-up to the cathartic blow out of the ending. 

It will be telling to see how Tarantino originally meant to play his hand with the 60 minute version but there are moments here which are simply in a class of their own. It wants to say this is the definition of cinema. It opens on a Dodge Charger driving along the banked mid-Californian rockscape to Jack Nietzshe, as distinctive a retort to your average Hollywood film as I’ve seen this year, lovingly recreating the warp and grain of an overlooked Jess Franco film circa 1977. As for the plot, forget permutations or the kind of design he displayed in Pulp Fiction. It’s two groups of four girls who have the misfortune to bump into Stuntman Mike and his converted Dodge Charger – Death-Proof. Since Tango and Cash things have been a bit barren for Kurt Russell and he’s clearly relishing the role Stuntman Mike. Indeed, the character he plays is a wandering Stuntman who’s best days were a while ago, just like Kurt. As much as we know that this is going to turn nasty there are a number of explicit pointers from Tarantino to just kick back and relax and not worry too much that the blood and gore will get in the way of a good ride. The cinematography is by Tarantino and it makes much of Kill Bill (1 and 2) seem pedestrian. There is a sense of musical intimacy which delights in suggestion rather than actually going into a flesh show. 

In the second part the kiwi stunt girl Wendy Ide is ideal as the feminist riposte. The dialogue begins to chase it’s own tail and you wonder when exactly the showdown chase will start. When it starts, it comes through brilliantly. As Stuntman Mike’s Charger is bearing down on the girls’ Dodge Challenger it connects like a knock-out punch. The motorcycle into the advertising board alone is cinematic history. As yet another take on a fascination for the 70s in these more lifeless and artless times, it is near enough a triumph!

Charles Maclean