Hang up the chick habit: Death Proof = fun.

Grindhouse had perhaps the most delicious concept in recent years. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriquez realised that we, the cinema going public, were being ripped off with our measly one film per ticket. These kids remembered the days when films came in twos, usually with a helluva lot of cheesy B-Movie trailers and a cartoon to boot. They decided to recapture this experience.

Unfortunately, such ideas seemed bizarre and alien to the vast majority of the American population, who chose to go see pun-tastic gutter crap like Who’s Your Caddy? instead. Grindhouse: The Experiment failed. Hypothesis disproved.

However, some of the failed experiments are also coincidentally some of the most interesting ones. I for one was looking forward to grabbing a big fuck-off bag of popcorn (note: I do not know exactly how a bag of popcorn can be ‘fuck-off’, but this does not concern me right now) and gorging on three-and-a-bit hours of deliriously cheesy and knowingly brainless entertainment. Unfortunately the towering goliaths known as the Weinstein Brothers decided us poor, pompus Europeans wouldn’t or couldn’t understand the concept either, and so played us for the schmucks we are and split the thing in two.

Seriously, that’s like a 6” Subway sandwich: they are designed 12” for a reason, and anyone who argues otherwise is – in the words of an ancient philosopher – a bit of a girly man.

Anyway, Death Proof is previously conjoined twin number one. We all know Quentin Tarantino is a nostalgia whore, so it is little surprise to see him interpreting a genre he is all too familiar with: the maniac / car chase movie. The opening echoes the beginning of his previous masturbatory revisitation of genres past: Kill Bill, a glorious two-part Technicolour recreation of the Japanese martial arts and samurai films of old, and one fine rip roaring rampage of revenge. Both begin with vintage titles that I can only assume echo the pre-film placards familiar to American movie-goers of a certain age. Unfortunately, the similarities don’t end there. Like Kill Bill, Death Proof is as easy to enjoy as it is to criticise.

Major flaw numero uno: it is frighteningly clear that Death Proof has suffered as a result of Tarantino’s less time efficient recut. The film was originally designed as a 90 minute half of Grindhouse, but in order to justify the solo release, old Quentin has decided to insert a good half hour of extra footage. Having not seen the shorter cut, I am in no position to comment effectively, but Death Proof: The Two Hour Cut is seriously overflowing with material. In fact, a good 70-80% of the film is simply two groups of girls sprouting referential Tarantino bullshit. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but there is far too much of it, and it isn’t nearly compelling enough. The monologues don’t match the iconic speeches of Pulp Fiction or Reservoir Dogs. You’d wish these girls would just belt up and get to the car chases.

Our second flaw comes in the form of unevenness. *Very minor spoilers ahead now, children*. Death Proof is a film of two halves, and the divide, shall we say, lacks subtlety. In the first half of the film, the film’s villain Stuntman Mike is portrayed as a cunning and dangerous bastard you wouldn’t want to mess with. For the films conclusion, this menacing character is reduced to a blubbering joke. It is a jarring contrast, and there is an argument that it exists to emphasise the exaggerated feminist subtext. Yeah, we are quite aware this particular Stuntman is a misogynist, but the difference between the character’s personality between the two halves really stands out a little too obviously.

However, Death Proof often rises above these glaring concerns. The whole kitsch factor cannot fail but draw you into the lovingly constructed B-Movie world. Whether it is the old school opening credits, the knowing anachronisms, or the constant references to popular culture (including a number of throwbacks to previous Tarantino movies – note Rosario Dawson’s ringtone, or Tarantino’s trademark foot porn shots) elements of the film will provide the learned film-goer with regular nerdgasms. When the car chases come, they come hard and fast. The final, fifteen minute, two car deathmatch is an expertly choreographed piece of fluff which will pleasingly numb even the most critical of brains. And the ending is a pleasantly blunt and efficient affair, that doesn’t place a single superfluous frame after the natural end of the narrative (although the closing credits feature some bizarre insert shots). It leaves certain plot holes open, but it is a truly excellent conclusion, and has a predictably terrific soundtrack to boot.

Again, the harsh critic could rant and rave about Death Proof – whether it concerns the overlong running time, or the jarring and distracting edits that merely annoy rather than enhance the Grindhouse experience. But overall, Death Proof is A-Grade B-Movie material. The effect may be lost on a younger audience unfamiliar with the experience this movie recreates (I fall into this category, and tbh it wasn’t really a concern), and the Weinstein Brothers have to be criticised for not releasing Grindhouse in its full, unedited glory (and I’m still waiting for a release of the accompanying fake trailers). But Death Proof remains a slice of dumb ass entertainment above the norm. I don’t strongly recommend this film, but I recommend it to a moderate degree (if that is possible). It isn’t perfect, but it was never meant to be. It just kicks ass, and sometimes kicks it hard.

Oww.