Proof Positive
OK, so, I’m knackered, I’m soaked to the skin, I’m on the last train out of Edinburgh on a Saturday night (which is either a really great time or the scariest thing you’ve ever experienced) – and you know what? I feel good. Why? Because Quentin came through.
Yeah, once again Tarantino restores my faith in cinema.
I’ll be straight with you. The colour scheme on this website was never intended as a Kill Bill reference [since changed, but at the time it was yellow and black] – it was meant as an ironic statement on the weather. And quiet trickster – QT? That’s coincidental. But I’ll freely admit – I was a Taranteen.
A large part of what I crave from cinema, that I hold dear in cinema, comes from Tarantino, and the effect his work had on Hollywood in the 90s. So I’m a little prejudiced. But at the same time, it’s always hard to avoid getting caught up in the backlash that follows Tarantino around like a whipped puppy.
He’s self-indulgent, workshy – It isn’t Inglorious Bastards. It isn’t Reservoir Dogs, or Pulp Fiction. It’s immature, it’s just the same old, same old, only with more booty.
What it is, is cinema. Full on, all out, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke cinema. It’s sick, and gratuitous, with no stinting on the ‘Ew! Fuck!’ And it’s smart, and funny, and practically feminist next to the current trend for torture porn (or even the CSI: NY episode in which actress Vanessa Ferlito last died in a car)
Any fool can pastiche the cheap-ass exploitation flick – Who else could make it look better than almost anything screening this year? Not sumptuous set dressing beauty, not elegant long shot beauty – frame for frame, couldn’t work any other way, rich, pure cinema. Hell, who could get all those guys to sit through so much chick flick banter?
Quentin Tarantino. Can’t act for shit, but, damn, the man knows cinema.
(And gotta love Kurt Russell’s John Wayne impression…)
I saw:
- 18/08/07, 9:30pm: Death Proof (Cineworld 7)
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