Dir. Quentin Tarantino, US, 2007, 114 mins
Cast: Kurt Russell, Rosario Dawson, Vanessa Ferlito, Zoe Bell
Review by Richard Badley
Thought the UK was missing out on two movies since Grindhouse failed to set the US box office on fire? Luckily, Quentin Tarantino has been seeking critical sanctuary in Europe, clutching an extended version of his car crazy contribution, Death Proof, and ready to feel the warm praise an auteur craves. For audiences this side of the Atlantic it means a longer, better framed movie with a definitive middle that makes a distinctive double-bill of its own. The first is QT at his best; cosy, chilled and forcing the already pedestrian pace to wait at traffic lights – for a car chase thriller it’s frustrating but gearheads are rewarded when the story shifts to a different time and place, into almost a different movie entirely.
By Tarantino standards the story of Death Proof is laughably straightforward and the director dispenses with his usual non-linear flourishes and asides. Instead he revels in his nasty, exploitation creation of Stuntman Mike (a scarred Russell) who gets his kicks by stalking groups of foxy chicks and ending their lives at speed with his ‘death proofed’ vintage automobile. In the first instance his prey are an innocent trio out for a good night and hoping to attract some male attention of a less homicidal nature. Hanging out in a seedy bar with QT himself pouring the drinks and his record collection on the jukebox allows the director to show-off his immense skill with referential dialogue while imbuing surroundings with a dirty 70s style. The grainy footage, complete with jumps in sound and mismatched cuts, are so effective in dating the film that when the girls whip out mobile phones and iPods the viewer’s brain almost can’t comprehend them.
Lurking in the background is the embittered Mike, building up to his big drink of the evening, a Virgin Piña Colada, and Russell infuses the monster with both humour and danger. He’s full of easy charm but once he’s behind the wheel he’s an unrepentant psycho and the sickening smash halfway through, replayed from several angles, is ludicrously over the top yet Tarantino can still raise a gasp. He may be the king of cool but Death Proof still feeds his penchant for bloody violence.
Cut to 14 months later, a different state, a different set of targets and an altogether different approach. This time round the girls are tough (with the exception of the vacuous actress played by Mary Elizabeth Winstead) and fiercely independent. With sensible Abernathy (Rosario Dawson) and stuntwomen Kim (Tracie Thoms) and Zoe (Zoe Bell, who was Thurman’s stunt double in Kill Bill and features here ‘playing herself’) they certainly aren’t going to be lap-dancing round Mike like his usual prey. Their dialogue is markedly more adult, they talk of screwing rather than ‘making out’ and they don’t need a horde of horny guys to tell them how great they are, they’re out to race cars; specifically a locally advertised Dodge Charger.
Shot entirely in the daytime the segment feels anemic compared to the first. The dialogue centres around movies but padded by a lot more ‘muthafuckin’ and it also isn’t helped that Bell has difficulty carrying the language which doesn’t suit her easy going Kiwi roots. In an effort to dodge the dreaded misogynist tag Tarantino has gone all 'Sex in the City' to give the women strength but it comes at the price of personality. It’s as if he’s remade the first half by today’s standards; following the same story but suffocated by political correctness, the 70s versus the 00s, a director showing us how safe cinema has become.
But what the second half does have is some of the best pedal to the metal, tire squealing, burnt rubber almost wafting from the screen, real-life car stunts since Gone in 60 Seconds (before you say anything, as one character quips “I’m talking about the original, not that Jolie shit.”). And that’s the big bonus of having a daredevil stuntwoman like Bell in the cast; everything’s done for real as she’s clinging onto the bonnet of a car that’s locked in battle with Mike’s mean machine. In the prolonged chase sequence through deserted roads Tarantino expertly captures the raw cinema of the 70s so that when the opponents cannon onto a busy highway of modern vehicles it’s like the end of Blazing Saddles where the cast, dressed in cowboy gear, burst from the movie lot and into the reality.
In that moment, as the retro Charger’s weave past the boxes of silver monotony, Tarantino proves they just don’t get made like this anymore. Audiences are so used to the gloss, the fiery explosions, that the connection with the reality of what’s happening on screen, the bravery which went into creating it, is usually lost. Death Proof attempts to redress the balance, proving action can live alongside hip characters while also providing a polemic against modern filmmaking techniques that fail to capture the handmade touch. The fact that Tarantino does all this in a cheap flick about a crazy man who murders babes with his car just goes to show how vital a director he is; a playful geek who just loves pastiche but also one who creates debate. True, Death Proof does have one too many winks at Kill Bill, hinting at a Tarantino disappearing into self-indulgence, but the man still offers up one helluva ride into the good ol’ days.
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