Showing posts with label Rose McGowan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rose McGowan. Show all posts

16 November 2009

The Decade List: Grindhouse (2007)

Grindhouse – dir. Robert Rodriguez, Quentin Tarantino, Rob Zombie, Edgar Wright, Eli Roth

Probably the most rousingly effective ode to bad taste that graced the cinemas over the past ten years, Grindhouse provided its audience what so few of the exploitation films it honors only hinted toward: the meat (and outside of Antichrist, my Decade List entries have been a little too “respectable” lately). With both the meat and the sizzle on the plate, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino (as well as Rob Zombie, Edgar Wright and Eli Roth who directed shorts that accompanied the double-feature) recreated the spirit of the films they both love so much with their back-to-back sleaze fests, Planet Terror and Death Proof, both of which just so happen to be two of the best films either director has ever made. The former is the best thing Rodriguez has ever done; with Tarantino, it’s not as certain.

As its intended theatrical double-feature, both Planet Terror and Death Proof hilariously play off one another, despite aligning with different subsets of exploitation films. Planet Terror is blissful mayhem from the Rose McGowan go-go dancing credit sequence to its absurd (in the good way), utopian ending. Death Proof, however, takes its time, alienating certain viewers with its incessant long-take dialogue and Tarantino pop culture references. Yet, however you feel about the rest of the film, Death Proof offers the most exhilarating finale for not just the Tarantino entry, but Grindhouse itself. The positioning of the films is almost as crucial as the films themselves, not to mention that both sort of play off one another. In Planet Terror, we hear a radio dedication to one of the characters in Death Proof, not to mention that McGowan appears in both films as drastically different characters and Marley Shelton as the same one. And in a way, Grindhouse is just as much an ode to the specific charms of Rose McGowan as it is grindhouse films of the past.

While I generally lean toward Death Proof as the superior of the two, I suppose it really boils down to a matter of (dis)taste. Planet Terror is about as faithful as you can get to a zombie-infused nuclear apocalypse film. The script, by Rodriguez, would have probably been ranked as one of the more efficient and skilled (in a screenwriting sense) of the time, had it came out during said period. Everything obnoxiously and hilariously comes back in the end, from corny life lessons to disputes among characters, one in particular involving a barbeque recipe. The screenplay is so artless that it reaches a level of tongue-in-cheek beauty.

Death Proof, however, functions drastically differently. I, personally, haven’t felt like Quentin Tarantino has ever really followed up Pulp Fiction; the tepid Jackie Brown and overrated Kill Bill series don’t feel like films as much as they do time-wasters, even though time wasting is what Tarantino does best in Death Proof. In hindsight, one realizes that Death Proof only exists for its final fifteen-minutes, its utterly invigorating car chase. Once again, I’d like to quote my friend Tom, who hilariously described James Gray’s We Own the Night as “a car chase in search of a movie;” that particular statement would perfectly describe Death Proof, only in this case its not a criticism. While some might disagree with it not being a criticism, the chattiness in Death Proof isn’t merely a Tarantino motif as it is intentionally unintentional suspense. There’s an overcast of fear and terror that runs throughout the film which heightens with every silly talk-fest that is seemingly just leading up to the film’s stunning climax. When the film reaches its second act (Death Proof itself is something a double bill), there’s a real uneasiness about what is about to transpire. The excessive build-up to the game of ship’s mast that stuntwoman Zoë Bell and Tracie Thoms want to play is both irritating and alarming. Their chatter, which just fills screen time to the act itself, makes for brilliant danger, which Tarantino will execute like, really, no other in the scene that follows. I appreciate the long stretches of dialogue that seem to be about nothing, because it feels like an authentic exploitation film that wrote some semblance of a screenplay around a single jolting car chase sequence. Pop culture references from Lindsay Lohan to Vanishing Point (and the best of the lot, when Rosario Dawson tells her girlfriends that her director boyfriend fucked Daryl Hannah’s stand-in) become permissible not because Death Proof is so good but because modesty doesn’t really have any place here.

I mentioned in the piece on Children of Men that I pity those who missed it in the theatre, as the home theatre experience could never fully recreate the cinema experience, and this statement applies just as much to Grindhouse (and it would even if The Weinstein Company had released Grindhouse officially on DVD instead as two separate films). I don’t mean to suggest that the best cinematic experiences come in the form of bold “action flicks;” I still regret that I had to see the majestic Flight of the Red Balloon on television and not in the theatre (and I also defended the theatre-going experience with Mulholland Drive as well). But anyway, I can’t really think of another theatrical experience I had in the past 10 years that was more entertaining to the point of beatific exhaustion than Grindhouse.

With: Rose McGowan, Kurt Russell, Marley Shelton, Zoë Bell, Rosario Dawson, Tracie Thoms, Freddy Rodriguez, Josh Brolin, Sydney Tamiia Portier, Vanessa Ferlito, Jeff Fahey, Michael Biehn, Jordan Ladd, Naveen Andrews, Bruce Willis, Quentin Tarantino, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Eli Roth, Rebel Rodriguez, Tom Savini, Omar Doom, Michael Parks, Electra Avellán, Elise Avellán, Stacy Ferguson, Marcy Harriell, James Parks, Jay Hernandez, Udo Kier, Sheri Moon Zombie, Nicolas Cage, Sybil Danning, Tom Towles, Bill Moseley, Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, Katie Melua, Matthew Macfadyen, Danny Trejo, Cheech Marin, Will Arnett
Screenplay: Robert Rodriguez, Quentin Tarantino, Rob Zombie, Edgar Wright, Jeff Rendell, Eli Roth
Cinematography: Robert Rodriguez, Quentin Tarantino, Phil Parmet, Milan Chadima
Music: Graeme Revell, Robert Rodriguez, Carl Thiel, Tyler Bates, David Arnold, Nathan Barr
Country of Origin: USA
US Distributor: Dimension/The Weinstein Company

Premiere: 6 April 2007

23 February 2009

Faggy-licious

Why I bother reading user comments about the Oscar show is an issue that I should address with my analyst, but as I did again this year, hearing people bitch and moan about Hollywood's "liberal agenda" being thrown out in acceptance speeches just annoys me to no end. "I want escapism," I heard one person say... well, fine, go see Taken again. The Oscars are, and have always been, self-congratulatory, so unless that's your idea of "escapism," I'd suggest going elsewhere (although Slumdog Millionaire being named the Best Picture of the year does suggest that the commenter isn't alone in his thoughts). However, what people fail to mention is how the Academy Awards are the perfect platform for such "liberal agenda." Sean Penn isn't wrong in calling Hollywood a bunch of "homo-lovin', commie bastards," but emphasis should be on homo-lovin', not actually "homo." As much as I reject earnestness in most of its forms, Dustin Lance Black's acceptance speech actually struck a chord with this cynic. People fail to recongize that for a young homo, there's really no one to look up to. Sure, they've got plenty of support, with GLAAD commercials with Rachel Griffiths and celebrities like Ricki Lake, Rose McGowan and Drew Barrymore marching for their equal rights, but who do they have to look up to? Hollywood's still so gay shy that outside of Ian McKellan, who can they even look up to? I'm not saying that having support from the heterosexual community isn't sufficent enough, but when you've got your pick of Boy George, Rupert Everett, Clay Aiken and some guy on Gray's Anatomy, it's still a pretty sad state of affairs. The Oscars, thus, form the perfect media outlet to spread Hollywood's "liberal agenda." I suppose things are heading in the right direction (albeit slowly), but I'll take that "liberal agenda" any day of the week. PS: Can Tina Fey and Steve Martin host the Oscars next year? And yeah, I can never resist posting photos of Tilda Swinton.

15 July 2008

Shut the fuck up!

That was an elated "Shut the Fuck Up" that titled this entry, not a rude one, as a little birdy came onto my shoulder to tell me that instead of Rose McGowan playing Barbarella, she's going to team with Robert Rodriguez for a remake of........ Red Sonja! In playing the role made famous by Brigitte Nielsen, I think this might be an even-better move for my dear Rose (although I don't think she's quite as alluring with red hair, but I'll take what I can get). They better keep that brilliant Ennio Morricone score.

03 July 2008

Bad News Tennis Shoes

Michael K from Dlisted is reporting that my dear Rose McGowan has been dropped from Robert Rodriguez's Barbarella remake, which pisses me off to no end. The studio apparently wanted a name for the lead and guess who they want to play the role made famous by Jane Fonda: Jessica fucking Alba. She's about as sexy as a hang-nail and about as interesting too, so my well wishes for the unnecessary remake have dissipated. You may know that Alba, alongside Hayden Christensen, makes me want to gouge my eyes out. Boring and talentless have never offended me so much.

On a local note, the Tivoli in the University City Loop has announced their Midnight Movie Fest for this summer/fall. The results are mixed, as usual, appealing to the dorky 80s crowd mainly, but there are a few highlights, which include the uncut version of David Lynch's Wild at Heart, which I believe is just a little more graphic decapitation/head explosion (I can't remember which) near the end, and John Cameron Mitchell's Hedwig and the Angry Inch. John Waters' Pink Flamingos will also show it's filthybeautiful head, and, though I might have thought it to soon, the epic Grindhouse will also be showing. And now you can see it with people who knew what the fuck was supposed to be going on. The full list is as follows:

July 18-19 - Alien (Director's Cut)

July 25-26 - American Psycho

Aug 1-2 - Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Aug 8-9 - Wild at Heart (Uncut) - No One Under 18 Admitted

Aug 15-16 - Jurassic Park

Aug 22-23 - The Breakfast Club

Aug 29-30 - Blade Runner (The Final Cut)

Sept 5-6 - The Dark Crystal

Sept 12-13 - Grindhouse

Sept 19-20 - Rear Window

Sept 26-27 - The Crow (new print)

Oct 3-4 - My Neighbor Totoro (in English)

Oct 10-11 - Pink Flamingos - No One Under 18 Admitted

Oct 17-18 - 2001: A Space Odyssey

Oct 24-25, Oct 31-Nov 1 - The Rocky Horror Picture Show

29 August 2007

Zero Gravity

Oh, please let the rumors that Robert Rodriguez is going to cast Rose McGowan as Barbarella in his upcoming remake be true. Granted, the original, with Jane Fonda, is quite bad... but Planet Terror was such a joy that I can't imagine Rodriguez would have difficulty adding some spunk to the remake. And, with Rose (whom he's currently dating), the deal has been sold... at least to me.

18 April 2007

The Horror: Extended Edition

Grindhouse - dir. Robert Rodriguez, Quentin Tarantino, Rob Zombie, Edgar Wright, Eli Roth - 2007 - USA

Grindhouse, despite many reservations I may have had, provided what most exploitations only hinted toward: the meat. I’m sure plenty of critics have used the term “full-throttle” to describe one or both of the features within Grindhouse (as “full-throttle” is just as commonly thrown around in film “criticism” as “tour de force”), and for lack of any word to better convey the intensity of the films, I’ll reluctantly agree with said critics. Sure, there were plenty of sleaze fests from back in the day, but as I’ve stated in numerous other reviews, exploitation films, as quoted by a TLAVideo reviewer on the film Let Me Die a Woman, always seemed to provide the “sizzle” without the “meat.” And thankfully, two filmmakers, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino, have blessed us with both in their ode to the grindhouse films of decades past.

The idea of separating the two from one another (in order to recuperate money that wasn’t received on its opening weekend) is a shame. Both Rodriguez’s Planet Terror and Tarantino’s Death Proof beautifully play off one another, despite being completely different films. Planet Terror is utter mayhem from the go-go dancing credit sequence to its absurd, utopian ending. Death Proof, however, takes its time, alienating certain viewers with its incessant long-take dialogue and Tarantino pop culture references. Yet, however you feel about the rest of the film, Death Proof provides the most exhilarating finale for not just the film, but the double-feature itself. The positioning of the films is almost as important as the films themselves, not to mention that both sort of play off one another. In Planet Terror, we hear a radio dedication to one of the characters in Death Proof, not to mention that Rose McGowan appears in both films as drastically different characters and Marley Shelton as the same one.

Among the few people who actually saw the film, I’m sure there’s a debate going around as to which is the superior of the two, and it’s all a matter of taste, really. It goes a bit deeper than whether you’re a zombie-freak or a fast-car aficionado. A preference is probably devised as to which method the directors take you would align yourself with. Planet Terror is about as faithful as you can get to a nuclear apocalypse film where zombies are taking over the world. The screenplay, by Rodriguez, would have probably been ranked as one of the more efficient and skilled (in a screenwriter sense) of the time, had it came out during said period. Everything obnoxiously and hilariously comes back in the end, from corny life lessons to disputes among characters, here involving a barbeque recipe. The script is so artless that it reaches a level of tongue-in-cheek beauty.

Death Proof, however, functions drastically differently. My friend Eric commented, “Tarantino’s dialogue is becoming worse and worse as his films continue, or I’m becoming less and less tolerant of it.” I think both responses are correct. I, personally, haven’t felt like Quentin Tarantino has ever really followed up Pulp Fiction; the tepid Jackie Brown and overrated Kill Bill series don’t so much feel like films in a respected filmography as just time-wasters, even though time wasting is what Tarantino does best in Death Proof. In hindsight, one realizes that Death Proof only exists for its final fifteen-minutes, an invigorating car chase sequence like no other. While some might complain that the rest of the film is nearly unnecessary, I’d have to disagree with caution. The talkiness isn’t merely a Tarantino motif, as it us intentionally unintentional suspense. There’s an overcast of fear and terror that runs throughout Death Proof and heightens with every silly talk-fest that is seemingly just taking us to the film’s stunning climax. When the film reaches its second act, there’s a real uneasiness about what is about to transpire. The excessive build-up to the game that stuntwoman Zoë Bell and Tracie Thoms want to play (“ship’s mast,” I think is what it was called) is both irritating and alarming. Their talking, which just fills the time to the game itself, makes for brilliant danger, almost as much as seeing the scene itself. I appreciate the long stretches of dialogue that seem to be about nothing, because it feels like an authentic exploitation film that wrote some semblance of a screenplay around a jolting car chase sequence. However, Tarantino tried his hardest not to make so much an exploitation film as a “Tarantino does exploitation” film. There are herds of annoying pop culture references, from Lindsay Lohan to an appreciation for the film Vanishing Point, that could have only come from Tarantino’s mouth. Sure, I snickered a little when Rosario Dawson tells her friends that her director boyfriend banged Daryl Hannah’s stand-in, but that doesn’t make up for Tarantino’s sheer lack of modesty.

Either way, Grindhouse stands alongside a few other films in recent memory as being exhaustingly entertaining, in ways movies so seldom are these days.

NOTE: Tarantino has admitted that Rose McGowan is his favorite actress (Brian De Palma concurs), and I can’t help but notice the odes to her other performances in both Planet Terror and Death Proof. In Planet Terror, Freddy Rodriguez comments that he loves the way Cherry (McGowan) says the word “fuck,” which (perhaps just for me) recalls some of her finer moments in Gregg Araki’s The Doom Generation, in which she barely utters a sentence without that word. My friend Dan suggested that her hideous blonde wig in Death Proof was also an homage to her role in Scream, where she, rather famously, gets her head smashed in a garage door because of the interference of her large chest.

NOTE 2: Though I loved both films, the finest moment of Grindhouse is easily (and I can’t think of many who will disagree) Eli Roth’s fake trailer for Thanksgiving. Makes you a little more excited about Hostel 2, doesn’t it?

03 April 2007

slow like honey

Some things you might expect once I get out of my writing rut:

-A critical examination of Alain Resnais' sublime Muriel, ou Le temps d'un retour.
-Some thoughts on Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez's Grindhouse (you know I was going to see it when the poster of Rose McGowan with a machine-gun leg was revealed)
-A better review of Children of Men

Any other suggestions, send them my way. Sorry for the lack of updates.

18 September 2006

An Appendix of The Black Dahlia


Though De Palma's latest, The Black Dahlia, didn't appear to fare so well at the box office (it lost the top spot to some inspirational football movie starring The Rock), it seems just about everyone I know went to see it anyway. I compiled a list of quotes from people who did go out and see it, and though they're paraphrased, you get the point.

Bradford:
"You only think you liked Hilary Swank in it, because everything before she showed up sucked, and when something that didn't suck nearly as hard showed up, you latched onto something."

Katie:
"I spent the whole car ride home talking about how much I fucking hate Scarlett Johansson."

Chris D.:
"Fuck Brian De Palma."

Chris B.:
"I told you it was in Mia Kirshner's contract that she had to at least make out with a girl in every project she does."

Stewart:
"Who woulda thought that the Black Dahlia would have been a subplot in a film called The Black Dahlia?"

Tom:
"As much as I disliked the movie, I near came when I heard Scarlett described as a big-titted Dakota cunt."

Eric:
"Awesomely disturbing and playfully generic."

Mike:
"Well, at least I liked that snake-skin dildo in the stag film."

The Fucking Woman Behind Me in the Theatre:
No opinion, due to the fact that she answered her fucking phone TWICE during the film.


I'm going to review Femme Fatale again soon, so I can defend that film as delicious De Palma (Tom, back me up on this one) and show why The Black Dahlia surely is not. Oh, and... at least Rose McGowan was amusing in the film. Oh, and if you want me to quote you on here about The Black Dahlia, please send me an e-mail, and I'll be happy to.

More quotes:

Jameson:
"I'm convinced Scarlett Johansson's best performances occur offscreen, while she's being titty-fucked in an elevator."

Charlotte:
"It sure made me sick."