Saw Kill Bill yesterday. I’m not quite a full-fledged Tarantinista, but I’ve enjoyed his work enough in the past to be somewhat amazed at the visceral, intense rage in some of the movie’s reviews. I mean, this was the SF Chronicle:

It boggles the mind that after six years of silence, all Tarantino has to offer is this garbage…Let’s just call it pornography. And let’s just admit it’s indefensible.

And this was the New Yorker’s David Denby (he of the crippling Internet porn addiction!):

Coming out of this dazzling, whirling movie, I felt nothing—not anger, not dismay, not amusement. Nothing.

I loved this movie. Sure, it’s empty — no deep lessons here (with the possible exception of “Don’t mess with a pissed-off woman, particularly one with Uma Thurman’s legs”). But it is so much damned fun! I had a permagrin on my face for the whole 90 minutes. Don’t let any moralizing critics keep you away. I don’t always agree with David Edelstein, but I think his review is the most reflective of my view of Kill Bill (and I love the way he digs at pornhound Denby):

The movie will not be to everyone’s taste; I’ve already read some tut-tut reviews, like the one by David Denby in The New Yorker that ends, “I felt nothing. Not despair. Not dismay. Not amusement. Nothing.” (Like many of my friend Denby’s weary plaints, this sounds better when you read it with a French accent: “Ah felt … nossing. Not ze despair … Not ze dismay … Not z’amuse-mon. Nossing.”) For my part, I felt glee. I felt the way I sometimes do at a Mark Morris dance piece that reshuffles familiar, showbizzy moves into something new and funny and unexpectedly lyrical. Kill Bill literally becomes a dance movie in the course of the final battle. The lights go out and the Bride and a horde of masked assassins are suddenly blue silhouettes gyrating against a great grid: It’s like An American in Paris with arterial spray.

07 December 2003

Comments

Post a comment