![]() ![]() When rampaging zombies rip off one of those gams and the hot-rod hero (Freddy Rodríguez) screws a submachine gun into her stump, McGowan edges out Uma Thurman in Kill Bill as the ultimate abused-and-fetishized action-movie femme. There it is, folks-the story in pictures of why he left his wife and kids for her. Rodriguez’s camera drinks in her pink face with its dimpled chin and pillowy red lips, then hugs her long stems in her short vinyl skirt and go-go boots. In this Tex-Mex bouillabaisse, he has a luscious object in Rose McGowan, who opens Planet Terror with a lissome, semi-naked pole dance and then sinks to the stage in tears: What a soulful actress, what a bod. Rodriguez has learned a few moves since his last big Tarantino collaboration, the rhythmless vampire farrago From Dusk Till Dawn. ![]() All that’s missing are the scary bathrooms and pungent aromas of urine and dope. Then comes Tarantino’s Death Proof, a more intimate and much more disturbing brew. First, Rodriguez serves up a zombie-infection shoot-’em-up splatterfest called Planet Terror, which plays like a bunch of other horror movies stitched together by a sloppy but high-spirited mad scientist. It’s a real Travis Bickle night out-a switchback journey into the belly of the B-movie beast. Photo: Andrew Cooper/Courtesy of the Weinstein CompanyĪt three hours and change, boasting two rowdy full-length features, a slew of garish fake coming attractions, and steady eruptions of carnage and cruelty, the Quentin Tarantino–Robert Rodriguez collaboration Grindhouse is an ode to the era of exploitation houses and an orgy for those who want to live (or relive) the dream. ![]()
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