Mr. Beaks

Sorry, but it just isn’t, and you should consider such ridiculously hyperbolic claims the highly suspect yammerings of fools not lucid enough to get past Quentin Tarantino’s self-indulgent song of praise to the revenge film and all its practitioners in order to recognize the [don_king_bellow]demented… augmented… unprecedented… awesomely… er, implemented[/don_king_bellow], heartfelt work of genius this man has improbably strung together. It is, of course, the bastard child of several cinematic fathers – Run Run and Run Me Shaw, Kinji Fukasaku, Brian De Palma, Sergio Leone *and* Sergio Corbucchi to name a few – but it is also, in its final assemblage, pure Tarantino in the best sense.

Following VOLUME ONE – which, bereft of a proper resolution, was essentially a shallow and unpleasant piece of expertly staged gore porn that, frankly, in its clearly unintended truncation, pissed me off – I was skeptical that Tarantino had it in him to rescue this saga from its rapidly onrushing risibility. KILL BILL, VOL. 1 was 111 minutes of frenetically paced mayhem aimed straight at the pleasure center, and it seemed unlikely that there would be enough time in the concluding chapter to provide the emotional ballast necessary to justify such painstakingly epic effort. For someone who felt that JACKIE BROWN was the director’s most accomplished work, this was a profound disappointment.

And, truth be told, when VOL. 2 opened with that cheesy black-and-white process shot of Uma headed for Bill’s that served as the film’s teaser, I dreaded the next 130 minutes. Though I had entered the theater with full knowledge of Harry’s unfettered enthusiasm for this final chapter (I didn’t read his review for fear of spoilers), we so sharply disagreed over VOL. 1 that his rave really wasn’t much of a clincher. For all I knew, VOL. 2 could be more of the same, and I certainly didn’t need another barrage of unremitting carnage; I needed this film to pause, take a deep breath, and offer me a reason to give a shit.

KILL BILL VOL. 2 does precisely that. It’s a triumphant march to the Bride’s exacting of “bloody satisfaction” that, because we know she has something to live for after her work is done (i.e. her daughter), transforms itself into a gallant hymn of liberation. Whereas VOL. 1 is consumed with bottomless, inarticulate fury, VOL. 2 is all stirringly righteous purpose, and it’s got a big ol’ sentimental streak that’s as far from “grindhouse” as can be.

From the opening wedding rehearsal that serves as our introduction to Bill, whose simmering jealousy we know is about to shatter the Bride’s hastily constructed new life away from the DiVAS, Tarantino gets in an introspective groove that’s more Leone than, as some have suggested, his prior work. The riffing is overt (interior shots through wide open front doors are about as loaded a piece of cinematic imagery as one can call up), but the iconography is as original to Tarantino as it was to Leone. As one would expect, Tarantino’s characters are much gabbier the Spaghetti auteur’s, but, as in VOL. 1, their dialogue is a strange mélange of chopsocky flick declamation and the self-reference of his earlier work. Some have mistakenly viewed this as “clunky”, but it’s an oddly perfect straddling of sensibilities that works within this universe. That said, I’m really happy I didn’t read the script before seeing the movie, as I don’t think “all cock-blockery aside” would read particularly well.

Good as the wedding sequence is, though, the film locates its heart six feet underground, when the Bride is buried alive by Budd and his stubby-armed co-worker. First of all, the actual burial is a terrifying sequence done largely in darkness that, if you’re claustrophobic and in a theater with a superlative sound system, will send you skittering out into the lobby never to return. Once under the earth, the Bride flashes back to her arduous training with Pei Mei (the it-goes-without-saying-the-motherfucker’s-brilliant Gordon Liu), where she earned the sifu’s respect through her unyielding and pure-hearted dedication to mastering his kung-fu. There is actually a scene before this that rather masterfully establishes Bill’s seductive and subtly abusive manipulation of the unworldly Bride, so that, as she wins over Pei Mei, we are suddenly rooting for her to break out of the literal and figurative coffins into which she’s been consigned. Her fantastic, Morricone-scored scamper out of the Earth is, like so many other moments in KILL BILL, an evocative blending of indelible imagery from multiple genres. Both times I’ve seen the film, this sequence has crescendoed into ecstatic applause from the audience.

Great as the Bride’s bruising final confrontation with Elle is, it’s the lengthy, conversation-heavy settling of affairs with Bill that lingers most in memory. And when the final spasm of violence finally arrives, Tarantino pulls off the most astonishing trick of his career: he makes the delivery of a ludicrous coup de grace deeply poignant. In the hands of any other filmmaker, this would be laughed off the screen, but Tarantino makes it work because he loves these conventions so completely. They’re a part of his world, and, as with any great director, his world is so fully and vibrantly realized, we embrace these elements no matter how silly.

Taken in one full gulp the first time through, KILL BILL is an impossible movie, akin to beer-bonging a fifth of Wild Turkey. Now, with the intermission in place, VOL. 1 is the shot, while VOL. 2 is the chaser; an apt metaphor, I think, for a film from a director so staggering drunk on cinema.

So, KILL BILL isn’t a masterpiece? Eh, who the fuck cares? Masterpieces are for pussies.

THE CREATURE AT FIFTY

Earlier this week, I had the pleasure to check out a fun little documentary titled CREATURE FEATURE: 50 YEARS OF THE GILL-MAN. Directed by Sam Borowski and Matt Crick, it’s an affectionate look back on the poor, lovelorn green guy, who, understandably, needed Julie Adams all to himself. The last of the great Universal Monsters (one of the interviewees in the film describes him as the Elvis to the Rat Pack of Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy and the Wolf Man), the Creature has long fascinated horror aficionados thanks to his singular design, courtesy of the legendary Milicent Patrick, and the tragic arc of his story, which was crafted by Arthur Ross (father of Gary) and directed by genre specialist Jack Arnold. Now, with his fiftieth birthday upon us, Borowski and Crick have feted him by rounding up a number of the principals involved in the original production (Ross, Adams, and Ben Chapman, who wore the outfit out of water), as well as a motley group of fans ranging from rabid collectors to actors like Daniel Roebuck and Benecio Del Toro (yes, you read that correctly).

Sounds like a perfect fit for Universal’s new “Legacy Collection”, right? Well, it is, but Universal isn’t completely convinced. As a fan of the Creature myself, I’m telling you that this absolutely should be snapped up by the studio. It’s filled with great anecdotes on the making of all three films in the trilogy, and also offers an amusing look into the world of Creature fandom that thankfully refrains from making fun of its subjects. For anyone who loves the Creature, it’d be a worthwhile complement to the film.

But if you want to see it, you’ve got to let Universal *know* you want to see it. How do you do that? E-mail ‘em here!!

Be respectful in your responses, and you just might get to see this when you purchase THE CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON later this year.

I’M GOING TO BE ANNOYINGLY PERSISTENT ABOUT THIS

Just in case you missed the announcement about AICN’s THE ANIMATION SHOW giveaway, I’ll remind you here that I’ve got 10 copies autographed by Mike Judge and Don “Boom Boom” Hertzfeldt. The details are in my Bill Plympton interview. You’ve got until next Friday to get your entry in, so hurry up and convince me that you deserve one of these suckers.

OUT LIKE RICHARD CHAMBERLAIN

I was going to talk about a movie I just watched that’s best described as Stanley Kramer gone racist and on acid, but I just can’t do it justice right now. That’ll get rolled into next week along with some thoughts on Guy Maddin’s incredible THE SADDEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD, Jim Jarmusch’s COFFEE & CIGARETTES, and other shit I’m forgetting because I really want to watch my recently purchased copy of VENOM (a childhood fave of mine which, by the way, Tarantino references in VOL. 2). It probably sucks now that I’ve grown up and acquired actual taste, but I’m a sucker for nostalgia trips. I mean, I listen to Ennio Morricone’s score for ORCA with disturbing frequency.

This has all gone horribly wrong.

Faithfully submitted, Mr. Beaks

Thanks, man. Good stuff this week, and I look forward to the Jarmusch piece. I think I’m seeing the film this coming Monday at the Arclight with him in attendance, but I’m not lucky enough to sit down with him. Should be a great read...

"Moriarty" out.