Grindhouse: Schlock shop

Sometimes there’s a fine line between loving homage and bratty parody. In Grindhouse’s throwback to 1970s sleazy exploitation cinema, that border proves as big and obvious as a drive-in movie screen – at more than three hours, Grindhouse presents a self-contained double feature of two full-length movies: Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof serving an affectionate mix of fast cars and female empowerment, while Planet Terror, Robert Rodriguez’s romp through zombie-flick clichés, merely strives to be as gross as possible.

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Grindhouse delights in reproducing the experience of seeing films at seedy old cinemas, from fake trailers to missing reels to simulations of worn-out celluloid prints and malfunctioning projectors. The scratchy-print effect adds to each film’s atmosphere, in the same way contemporary musicians such as OutKast can put the hiss and pop effects of old LPs on pristine modern recordings. Planet Terror, the first on the bill, even integrates the film “condition” into its narrative style. When the melting, shambling undead attack the dwindling number of small-town Texas heroes, the “print” increasingly skips and gets more scratchy, heightening the tension and sense of impending doom.

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If you’ve seen any commercial or poster for Grindhouse, you’ve seen Planet Terror’s most memorable creation: Rose McGowan’s go-go dancer, who replaces a missing limb with an unbelievably destructive weapon and makes an impression like a cross between Wonder Woman and the Bride of Frankenstein.

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Despite Rodriguez’s obvious enthusiasm for pulp cinema, it’s often difficult to tell how deliberately bad the acting and dialogue are intended to be. Rodriguez seems motivated primarily by crafting money shots that are bigger and more disgusting than the last, and takes a nasty glee in a mean-spirited joke involving an ill-fated child. I’m not sure which is more horrible to see, the suppurating pustules of the cannibalistic “sickos,” or Tarantino’s performance as a sadistic guard (if anything, his acting is even worse than you remember). Compared with the George Romero and John Carpenter films that clearly inspired it (or even last year’s smart zombie flick, Slither), Planet Terror feels arch and insincere.

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Tarantino treats Death Proof as more than a spoof. Apart from some text-messaging scenes, the thriller resembles some beloved B-movie that could’ve shared a bill with old Burt Reynolds or Walking Tall flicks. You can imagine Death Proof being pitched by a filmmaker from the Ford administration era, selling the flick as both a celebration of hot rods and women’s lib.

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Slurping down a nacho platter in his opening scene, Kurt Russell sinks his teeth into the role of Stuntman Mike, a scarred but charismatic stranger who preys on women with his tricked-out Dodge Charger. The violence, however, takes a backseat to the scenes of female friendship. Tarantino’s dialogue may be overly intricate at times, but he clearly appreciates feminine banter and bonding, and devotes long, loving scenes to such starlets as Rosario Dawson, Sydney Tamiia Poitier and Zoe Bell (Uma Thurman’s Kill Bill stunt double, who literally plays herself here). Partly, Tarantino wants to set up characters so we’ll feel their loss more keenly than the anonymous sluts who get dispatched in cheap slasher films. But he also grooves on the vibe of gal-pals hanging out in bars or diners, drinking and flirting, joking and gossiping.

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Tarantino seems unconcerned that his laid-back naturalism can easily tip over to downright tedium. There was a hilarious moment at the crowded preview screening I attended when another long chat started up and seemingly half the audience took a bathroom break. Fortunately, Death Proof’s vehicular homicides and the climactic car chase are so well-crafted you’ll be wishing the movie theater came equipped with seat belts.

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Grindhouse’s comedic highlights are the faux trailers that precede both films, crafted by such “guest directors” as Hostel’s Eli Roth and Hot Fuzz’s Edgar Wright, and featuring the sinister narrators of bygone days. In fact, Planet Terror feels more like a fake trailer expanded to feature length, a goof carried to extremes. Death Proof, on the other hand, is the real keeper. This Quentin Tarantino could go places.