Perversity, maybe. The whole of Kill Bill is a pastiche, a farrago, a revenge saga spun out in many distinct exploitation-movie styles and rhythms. It opens in a desert with the wedding of Beatrix, a. Black Mamba, a. It continues in the desert with the long sequence in which Beatrix is shot by Budd Michael Madsen in his trailer and then buried alive.
After killing scores of people in Vol. The one is, of course, Bill, and the long one-act play — a psychodrama, a family drama, a philosophical debate — leading to the swift, bloodless climax is proof that Tarantino is twisting, maybe even writhing within the revenge-saga structure, the way Shakespeare did in Hamlet.
A little, maybe. But not enough to keep Tarantino from making his last two movies pretty much straight-ahead vengeance thrillers. A jubilant, wistful, altogether exhilarating comeback for Tarantino — a pastiche that transcends pastiche. Leonardo DiCaprio is the fading Western star, Brad Pitt his loving stuntman, driver, gofer, and one-man entourage.
At first, the movie plays like a series of pleasurable digressions — on a Western TV set, the ranch where the Manson clan resides, a theater in which the radiant Tate takes in her performance opposite Dean Martin in a Matt Helm movie — until Tarantino arrives at August 8, the sun goes down, and the film snaps into focus.
Adapted from an Elmore Leonard novel, it feels distended by all the talk, talk, talk — until you get into its rhythm and realize the distensions are the point. The elaborate ruse of Samuel L. You want to laugh when Ordell finally drives in a circle, opens the trunk, and shoots the man … except the image is faraway and eerie. Not seeing the dead man makes his death more haunting. Could she really be dead? The narrative of Jackie Brown is nowhere near as pretzeled, but a key scene — in a mall, prior to the shooting of Melanie — is replayed from different angles, probably to underscore the idea which you really understand when stoned that reality is a collection of differing perspectives that rarely meet.
This has to sit atop the heap, though Jackie Brown is, all in all, the more masterly work. Its strangeness posed so many challenges. Why did it sound like that? Why was it shaped like that? Why did something with so many dissimilar parts work so harmoniously and have such an emotional kick? Jackson ride in out of the French New Wave that rode in out of American gangster and noir pictures , talking of Quarter-Pounders before assuming their coldly murderous roles.
The talk owes more, I think, to the exuberantly garrulous novels of George V. Higgins than is commonly recognized, but Tarantino makes the disjunctions starker. Share this article via facebook Share this article via twitter Share this article via messenger Share this with Share this article via email Share this article via flipboard Copy link.
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