Ryan Gilbey on Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof in the New Statesman:
… it represents a sort of embarrassment of riches, only without the riches.
Bad reviews
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Dear me, saucer of milk for the critic.
Here’s what Peter Bradshaw, film critic for The Guardian, had to say.
“As with Kill Bill, Quentin Tarantino and his producer and onlie begetter Harvey Weinstein have pulled the cheeky trick of cutting one overlong film in two and asking the ticket-buying public to lay out their hard-earned cash twice. Unlike Kill Bill, however, this is a bit of a failure. But even a Tarantino failure is still an awful lot more interesting than the successes of dullards and middleweights churning out Identikit films by the truckload.”
Doesn’t sound so bad. And Bradshaw goes on to say…
“Death Proof is wildly offensive, gleefully offensive, malice-aforethought offensive, with maximum gore and violence wrapped in an eerie glow of unreality.”
So there’s much to like.
It’s a funny thing about Tarantino. Like every other late 80s pretender, I was so excited by Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction. But I’ve been mildly let down by everything since. Partly cause he increasingly references a genre that I always knew was cool but never really embraced, but mostly cause I can’t see the heart in it. I need a bit of heart in it.
One of the funniest cartoons I ever saw was a picture of a whole lot of Reservoir Dog-style hoods having tea. It’s titled “Quentin Taranteatime”. One is going to pour the tea, saying, “Shall I be motherfucker?”