The early 1990s saw a rise in independent film-making that gave a voice to the wannabe auteurs and allowed them to handpick their own posse of preferred actors. This movement was spearheaded by the likes of Richard Linklater, Steven Soderbergh and Quentin Tarantino, and backed by disgraced scumbag Harvey Weinstein. Fresh off the huge success of Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, Quentin Tarantino was becoming a household name, and his unique brand of motor-mouthed, pop-culture-heavy dialogue and extreme violence was striking a chord with moviegoers both young and old. He took this unexpected fame and influence and used it unite a group of indie up-and-comers - Allison Anders, Alexandre Rockwell and Robert Rodruguez - for an offbeat anthology film about a young bellhop named Ted (Tim Roth) and his encounters with the various oddballs staying at his hotel.
The result was Four Rooms, and there's a reason Tarantino chooses to forget his own segment behind the camera when his trailers announce the new film as the nth of his career. It begins promisingly with a quirky animated intro that sets the goofy, unpredictable tone of the film, before diving into a collection of stories that appear to have been dreamt up in between bong hits. One thing Four Rooms has going for it is that the short films improve as we progress, but even Tarantino's final section reeks of narcissism and smugness. Anders' first story, about a coven of witches (including Ione Skye, Madonna, Alicia Witt, Lili Taylor, Sammi Davis and Valeria Golino) attempting to resurrect a goddess, may have worked for an episode of Charmed, but falls flat as the opener of what is supposed to be a collaboration between some of cinema's most exciting maverick filmmakers. Rockwell's short plonks Ted in the middle of psycho-sexual game between married couple Sigfried (David Proval) and Angela (Jennifer Beals).
The first two segments may have raised a titter if the writers didn't have such a tin ear for comedy and had a lead actor with a natural gift for over-the-top comedy. I love Tim Roth and he has had many great roles, but his twitching, shrieking Ted belongs in a cartoon. Rodriguez and Tarantino's efforts fare better because they rely less on Roth's prat-falls and more on their own self-indulgences. The performance of Antonio Banderas as a ridiculously posturing father who leaves his children under Ted's protection is a particular highlight from the third story, as the children naturally decide to make Ted's night a living Hell. Tarantino's climactic entry is full of memorable dialogue and pop culture insights, but the director, who also plays the main role, fails to inject much life into what is otherwise a plodding re-hash of his favourite episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Anthology films are always hit-and-miss, but Four Rooms fails to register a single hit. What was supposed to be a triumphant coming-together of a new wave of hip filmmakers is instead a limp and uneven slog through a tide of bad comedy and even worse ideas. One of the biggest disappointments of the 90s.
While the decision to split Kill Bill, originally intended as a three-hour epic tale of revenge, into two separate movies was greeted by fans with accusations of greed. Whether this is true or whether the full version of Quentin Tarantino's homage to 70's exploitation was simply too much to consume in one sitting, it actually turns out to be a masterstroke. Volumes 1 and 2 incorporate two vastly different styles, both of which allow Tarantino to fully indulge his love for kung-fu movies and spaghetti westerns with ample time and care. These are two different movies, never forgetting that the character linking them together is Uma Thurman's determined The Bride.
Having dispatched O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu) and Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox) in the first film, we first meet The Bride as she drives to her final target - Bill (David Carradine). To even consider this a spoiler would be failing to grasp the movies Tarantino is tipping his hat to, and the director makes a point of this by constantly shifting around the time-line. It's not so much about if she'll achieve her goal, but just how cool it will be when she does. Bill remained off screen for the bulk of Volume 1, seen either stroking his samurai sword and talking menacingly off-camera, but we meet him in his full glory almost instantly in Volume 2, as we are shown an extended version of the events that left The Bride shot in the head and left for dead.
First though, she must face Budd (Michael Madsen) and the one-eyed Elle Driver (Daryl Hannah). Budd is a tough, hard-drinking redneck working as a bouncer when he's not clumsily making margaritas in his trailer, and he is given a generous amount of screen-time and isn't let down by Madsen's gravelly performance. Similar to Tarantino's early films Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Pulp Fiction (1994), Budd's story is given a patient build-up before the burst of inevitable violence, portraying him as a beaten man awaiting his death at the hands of the woman he knows is coming for him. Just when his fate seems sealed, Tarantino slaps us in the face and turns his protagonists fortunes on their head, allowing for some down-time as we flash-back to The Bride's training with the formidable Pai Mei (Gordon Liu).
Pai Mei's chapter is the entire saga's crowning achievement, full of ridiculous crash-zooms and beard stroking that manages to poke fun at the genre, while at the same time warmly embracing and even transcending it. This leads The Bride to her face-off with Elle, which is a scene of such ferocity, humour and sheer bad-assery that it more than makes up for the creeping pace. As Bill, Carradine is a revelation, with Tarantino once again pulling an iconic actor out of obscurity to riff on the type of role they became famous for in the first place to deliver the performance of their career. An early version of the script had The Bride and Bill duelling to a sunset backdrop, but the low-key scrap opted for instead seems more fitting. Towards the climax, it seems that Tarantino is struggling with how to end his epic tale of revenge, but some minor bumps don't derail what is undoubtedly the most Tarantino-y of his catalogue, and certainly his most all-out fun.
Fans of Quentin Tarantino's unique brand of exploitation-cinema-worship were forced to wait six long years for his next movie after his underrated love-letter to blaxploitation, Jackie Brown (1997). The result was intended to be a 3 hour 'roaring rampage of revenge' but instead, thanks to the unenlightened head honchos at Miramax, Kill Bill became Kill Bill: Volume 1, a 110-minute half-movie that forced cinemagoers to pay again to see the following instalment four months later. Despite this money-making scheme that I'm sure Tarantino wanted no part of (he still refers to Kill Bill as one movie), Volume 1 is still quite brilliant.
Taking inspiration from the kung-fu and spaghetti western genre movies Tarantino no doubt indulged in during his time as a video store clerk (although Vol. 1 focuses mainly on the former), Kill Bill is, at times, a montage of shots, scenes and music from other movies from the 1970's. Yet Tarantino doesn't so much simply copy these films but play on our genre expectations while making it fun to test your own knowledge as a cinephile in the process. The tale is one of revenge, and a simple one at that. Tarantino has no qualms in staging Kill Bill as a one-by-one ticking-off of the bastards who wrongs our heroine, known simply as The Bride (Uma Thurman), who even carries a list of her targets and boldly strikes out their names as they fall.
A massacre at a wedding chapel instigated by Bill (David Carradine) and his Deadly Viper Assassination Squad sees everyone inside murdered apart from The Bride, who is shot in the head and put into a coma. Waking up four years later, she quickly sets about gaining her revenge on Bill and his four cronies - Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox), O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu), Budd (Michael Madsen), and the one-eyed Elle Driver (Daryl Hannah). Travelling to Okinawa in Japan, she approaches legendary samurai sword-maker Hattori Hanzo (genre legend Sonny Chiba) and talks him out of her retirement to forge her weapon of death.
Told in chapter form, scenes are either extremely talky or outlandishly action-packed. The quieter moments bristle with Tarantino's now-iconic dialogue, while the extended climax, taking place in a two-floor restaurant that is quickly turned into a blood bath, displays the directors then-unseen eye for action. As The Bride takes on O-Ren's gang (dubbed the Crazy 88) and her Meteor hammer-wielding bodyguard Gogo (Chiaki Kuriyama) she hacks and slices her way through them all in a moment that evokes The Matrix Revolutions of the same year, only with real people and an eye for action cinema. Its all backed by another terrific Tarantino soundtrack that is routinely pillaged by TV shows too lazy to find their own music. The ending leaves you hanging without feeling ripped off, and eager to see the final three names crossed off the list.
For his eighth feature (as the film's introduction reminds us), film-maker and cinephile Quentin Tarantino capitalises on the critical and commercial success of Django Unchained (2012) and delivers another western set in the South, where racial tensions are high. Set post-Civil War, as opposed to in Django where the slave trade was very much in full swing, The Hateful Eight lumps eight characters of dubious moral fibre in the same shack while a raging blizzard whistles outside. Evoking memories of his breakthrough feature Reservoir Dogs (1992), Tarantino's latest ultimately suffers from stretching a wafer-thin plot over a three hour plus running-time.
Peppering the movie with chapter titles a la Inglorious Basterds (2009), the film begins with a magnificent long take as the credits flicker on screen to the sound of Italian legend Ennio Morrecone's beautiful score. Grizzled bounty hunter John Ruth (Kurt Russell) is transporting notorious criminal Daisy Domegue (Jennifer Jason Leigh) to the town of Red Rock to collect his reward and see her hang. Fellow bounty hunter and war veteran Major Marquis Warren (Samuel L. Jackson) hitches a ride, and they also pick up former Lost-Causer Chris Mannix (Walton Goggins), who is on his way to Red Rock to be sworn in as sheriff. The three men discuss their past and future, but find each other hard to trust.
As a wailing blizzard approaches, Ruth's stagecoach pulls up at Minnie's Haberdashery, a cosy rest-stop which has been apparently left in the temporary care of Mexican Bob (Demian Bichir). This instantly arouses Warren's suspicions, who has frequented the place before and knows the owners well. Also resting at the haberdashery is eccentric British hangman Oswaldo Mobray (Tim Roth), the shady loner Joe Gage (Michael Madsen), and former Confederate general Sandy Smithers (Bruce Dern). Locked up together with no hope of moving on until the storm passes, the eight naturally talk and size each other up, with the events of the Civil War still firmly in everyone's mind. This being a Tarantino movie, it isn't long until guns are fired and blood is shed.
The dialogue crackles in the way that only Tarantino can deliver during the opening half, but an absence of humour and some twists and revelations that hardly come as a surprise throughout the second act tests the patience. Similar to Django, conversations go on longer than required, and unnecessary narrative devices - such as the sudden introductions of a narrator that comes and goes without reason - distract from a central story that needs to be more complex and unpredictable to justify the lengthy running time. Still, there's much to savour. Tarantino has always made inspired casting choices, and the ensemble - Russell, Leigh and Goggins in particular - are sublime. Filmed in 70mm Panavision to Morrecone's score, the filmcaptures the glorious wide-wide screen beauty of the great westerns of the 50's and 60's. Sporadically thrilling but ultimately frustrating, The Hateful Eight ultimately fails to reward the audience for their time.
I remember that back in the mid-90's, when Tarantino-mania was in full swing, the motor-mouthed former video store clerk-turned-auteur was always surrounded by controversy. His two movies, Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Pulp Fiction were portrayed as cruel, violent and sadistic by the media, while movie critics swooned over his pulpy, reference-heavy characters and innovative dialogue. Over 20 years later, Tarantino's films seem laughably mild compared to the casual ultra-violence of most 18-rated movies regularly released today. But while Reservoir Dogs can arguably be dismissed as a marvellously scripted and meticulously acted rip-off of City on Fire (1987), Pulp Fiction seems as fresh as the day it was released.
The black-suited duo of Vincent Vega (John Travolta) and Jules Winfield (Samuel L. Jackson), and the misty-eyed gangster's moll Mia Wallace (Uma Thurman) have been reduced to movie icons, adorning the walls of students and making it easy to forget just how well written they are. Tarantino is fascinated by the humdrum of these casual killers' lives, and their conversations about cheeseburgers, foot-massages and what constitutes a miracle sparkle with invention, intelligence and laugh-out-loud humour. It makes these cartoon characters, who seem they have been ripped straight from the pages of a book found in a dime-store book shop, seem real. Even though they have just shot two unarmed men in cold blood, you would still want to buy them a cup of coffee and pick their brains.
Pulp Fiction, as I'm sure you already know, tells three intertwining stories out of chronological order. After successfully obtaining a briefcase belonging to their boss, hit-man Vincent Vega is given the responsibility of looking after the big man's wife, Mia, for the night. He takes her to a retro diner where they talk pop culture and dance to Chuck Berry, and the night's events then take an unexpected turn. Travolta makes for an astonishingly sweet killer and heroin addict, and this story in particular sizzles with sexy dialogue and real chemistry between Travolta and Thurman. The now-infamous scene of an improvised adrenaline shock still has the power to make you wince, while remaining funny and utterly absurd all at the same time.
The second story, 'The Gold Watch', focuses on ageing boxer Butch (Bruce Willis), who after failing to follow thorough with his role in a thrown boxing match - organised by Vincent's boss Marcellus Wallace (Ving Rhames) - flees to the safety of a hotel room and into the arms of his lover Fabienne (Maria de Medeiros), who he intends on whisking overseas along with his wad of stolen loot. However, upon realising that Fabienne has failed to pack the gold watch handed down to him through many generations and eventually by his father's friend Captain Koons (Christopher Walken), he must return home to reclaim it. The events that transpire are some of the most outlandish work Tarantino has ever done, filled with gunfire, mutilation, rape, and a gimp. Such relentless brutality may have been off-putting, but Tarantino keeps you reassured that it's okay to laugh at what you're seeing, that it's only a movie. It's a textbook lesson in black comedy.
The narrative then jumps back in time to Vincent and Jules in the aftermath of the hit seen at the start of the movie. After an extremely gory accident, they are forced off the road and seek the hospitality of Jimmie (played by Tarantino himself). They hire professional fixer Winston Wolf (Harvey Keitel), who races against the clock to clean up the mess before Jimmie's wife arrives home from a night shift. The film climaxes at the diner shown in the opening scene, as Vincent and Jules's quiet breakfast is interrupted by a husband and wife stick-up team (Tim Roth and Amanda Plummer). The third segment is the funniest and features the most memorable dialogue, as Winston tries to motivate an objectionable Vincent ("pretty please, with a cherry on top, clean the fucking car,"), and Jules educates his new foe's following the life-altering miracle he believes he has just witnessed.
Featuring highly on practically every 'best of' list from 1994 to the present, Pulp Fiction needs no introduction and I doubt it ever will. Though I have enjoyed all of Tarantino's movies with the exception of 2007's tedious Death Proof (though it fares better when viewed in its Grindhouse entirety), I don't rate him as a truly great film-maker, as I don't feel he has ever managed to shake his compulsion to homage. But Pulp Fiction is undoubtedly a masterpiece, like nothing else made before or since (though many attempts have been made in vain). A thrilling exercise in style and substance, beneficial to cinema as a whole and responsible for re-igniting a few careers on the way. I cannot see Tarantino ever topping his achievements here, but then again his movies never fail to surprise me.
You would be forgiven if, during a screening of Quentin Tarantino's latest Django Unchained, you believed that one of the many directors the film plays homage to, is John Ford. After all, Ford all but made the American western genre his own, from early silents such as The Iron Horse (1924), to well-established classics like My Darling Clementine (1946) and The Searchers (1956), he brought critical adoration to a genre that was then seen as nothing more than popcorn cinema. But Tarantino hates John Ford, to quote - "to say the least, I hate him [...] It really is people like that that kept alive this idea of Anglo-Saxon humanity compared to everybody else's humanity." So, in Django, do we have a post-modern, anti-Ford American West, where a freed black slave is the hero, and the White Man the devil? Well, kinda. But this is Tarantino, and from what was clear from his previous film Inglourious Basterds (2009), he doesn't do things the regular way.
In 1850's Texas, shackled slave Django (Jamie Foxx) is released by dentist and bounty hunter King Schultz (Christoph Waltz), who bargains Django's freedom for information about the Brittle brothers, Schultz's latest bounty. Schultz is opportunistic in his outlook, but makes it clear to Django that he despises slavery. Django informs Schultz that he must find his wife Broomhilda (Kerry Washington), who he was separated from by his previous plantation owner. Moved by his story, Schultz agrees to help Django as well as take him on as an associated bounty hunter, after Django displays a natural ability for gunfighting and killing. Their search leads them to the plantation of Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio), a slaver who deals in 'Mandingo' slaves, along with his own freed slave Stephen (Samuel L. Jackson).
Very much like Inglourious Basterds, the most intriguing thing I found with Django is its sheer unpredictability. The later work of Tarantino have elected to follow very much they're own path, ignoring narrative convention or story-telling tradition in favour of certain scenes or ideas that the director wants there, or focusing on a certain character when they really have no purpose being there. For example, August Diehl's Major Hellstrom appears from nowhere in possibly the finest scene from Inglorious Basterds. He has no other scenes, but his character is instantly intriguing, whereas such a scene and character wouldn't have been given neither the depth or the screen-time if done by somebody else. It is a basic cover-gets-blown scene, seen in a thousand other films, but in Basterds it becomes a masterwork of tension, and features some of Tarantino's best ever dialogue. You could call it indulgent, but Tarantino sees the opportunity to squeeze as much as he can from every possible moment.
Django follows the same idea, but whereas this approach complimented Basterds' chapter-based structure and plethora of supporting characters and extended cameos, Django has neither the wealth of central characters, nor the sheer scope to be a complete success, or to justify it's massive 165-minute running-time. The narrative hook of Django finding his wife is given very little screen-time or focus that by the time this becomes important, its very difficult to really care. The more intriguing relationship that comes out of the film is in fact the one between Django and Schultz - polar opposites in terms of societal position and background - yet both in a situation that calls for them needing each other. The main bulk of the first two-thirds follows the two in the tradition of a buddy-movie, only they get along, and Tarantino manages to eject some fine comic moments into these scenes, as well some actually quite touching ones.
Although he doesn't possess the sociopathic charisma as his Hans Landa from Basterds did, the character of Schultz is another triumph for Tarantino and Waltz both, the latter being recognised again by the Academy and receiving a Best Supporting Actor nod. Like Landa, Schultz is a social intellectual, a man able to use his wits and charm to lure his victims into a false sense of security before either blowing the top of their head off, or outwitting a town's marshal. But it is Waltz - and DiCaprio's maniacal plantation owner - that comes out of this most memorable, not the film's protagonist, Django. Foxx is perfectly fine in the role, as angry and posturing as you would want ("you gonna let me pick my own wardrobe?"), but sadly just as un-memorable. Tarantino seems so wrapped up in Schultz and the film's extreme violence that Django gets left out in the rain, lacking the iconic costume or the stand-out scene that, say, Uma Thurman's The Bride in Kill Bill (2003-2004) had.
Spike Lee has said he will be boycotting the film, claiming the slave trade is not a subject for exploiting or trivialising, and opposes the excessive use of the 'n' word (something he complained about in Jackie Brown (1997) - a film that celebrated one of the most important era's for Black Cinema). It's a shame he will never see the film, as he would realise that not only does Tarantino take the matter seriously, but is the most brutal and explicit depiction of it I've ever seen. The violence is often over-the-top and cartoonish, yes, but is also disturbing and genuinely horrific (the Mandingo fight and dog scene being particular memorable). Tarantino also mocks the KKK (or an early version of it) in a scene which is in direct reference to John Ford playing one of the charging KKK in The Birth of a Nation (1915). Before the charge, they argue about the badly made eye-holes in their masks. It's a light scene given their intention, but goes on far too long to remain funny.
As much as I dislike Tarantino (as a person), his films will always be irresistibly intriguing. Regardless of whether they're self-indulgent missteps such as Death Proof (2007), or strokes of genius like Inglourious Basterds, you will always be getting something profoundly different to anything that any other director is even contemplating. Django is no different, setting out on one path and ending up wandering several detours, like a fat kid happily chasing the scent of gingerbread. When we do get to the end, it suffers from a serious anti-climax - disappointing given the 150-minute build-up. This is not the great film it really could have been, due to the neglect of its lead, a lack of real focus, and a final half hour that seems to strive for super-cool moments of iconography, rather than giving the film the satisfying ending that it really deserves. Ennio Morricone's title song is amazing, however.
Five years in the making, director Mark Hartley's documentary is his love-letter to the films he grew up with as a child. Like the majority of us film-lovers, we would occasionally stay up late and watch whatever crap late night television would show, whether it involved giant monsters, lesbian vampires, or gruesome horror. Hartley grew up in Australia, and he witnessed first hand the boom in Australia that saw their most prolific time in movie production, producing some of the most full-on B-movies of the time. Disappointed that writings on Australia cinema always failed to recognise this sub-genre, Hartley sent his synopsis to Quentin Tarantino, a long-time fan of 'ozploitation', who helped Hartley fund the project, and himself sitting in as the key interviewee.
As much I love his work, minus the pretty shoddy Death Proof (2007), Tarantino is possibly the most annoying person on Earth. I appreciate his enthusiasm, but he's such a shameless dork that I just want to punch him. And seeing him for long periods of this pretty good documentary just brings the film down. More interesting, however, are the interviews with the likes of Jamie Lee Curtis, Stacy Keach, Dennis Hopper, George Lazemby, and probably the most famous and prolific director of the period, Brian Trenchard-Smith. The film certainly opened my eyes to a sub-genre that I have until now neglected (apart from the globally popular Mad Max (1979)) and introduced me some films that actually look pretty good (namely psychokinetic thriller Patrick (1978), which I hope to watch very soon).
The documentary itself is obviously designed to be as entertaining as possible. Images, interviews, effects and film-clips fly at you at a relentless speed. Trying to keep in tone with the fast paced enjoyment of the B-movies it is showing, it does this at the cost of allowing the audience to absorb all the information. I don't mean it's hard to keep up with, I would just have liked the pace to slow down a touch so I can differentiate between the films it shows, and the various anecdotes given about their production. At the end of the film I could barely remember any specific films, just a blur of scenes. But like I said, it's certainly fun, and some of the visuals are wonderfully designed, especially the title sequence. Overall, a must-see for exploitation fans - the film is very well researched and Hartley clearly knows his shit - but nothing exactly ground-breaking for documentary fans.
This Japanese-Italian crossover is a homage to the great spaghetti westerns of the 1960's and 70's. The oh-so familiar plot is reminiscent of Akira Kurosawa's masterpiece Yojimbo (1961), later remade by Sergio Leone as a western with A Fistful Of Dollars (1964). A brooding gunslinger arrives in a small town that has been torn apart and occupied by two warring clans - the reds and the whites. After advertising his expert gun skills up his arrival, he at first offers up his services to the highest bidder, but after realising the peril faced by the town's innocent natives, he decides that he can put his skills to better use and wage a war against the clans. All of this is seemingly told by a mysterious stranger played by Quentin Tarantino, who introduces the film at the beginning.
After the truly cringe-worthy opening scene, in which the aforementioned Tarantino shows off his acting 'skills' and mows down a few faceless bad guys and talks tough, the film seems to pick up some pace. The opening is deliberately designed to look cartoonish, with plastic looking sets and over-the-top blood spraying. It just doesn't work and thankfully moves away from this style and takes on a more traditional method. For all it's trying, the film never leaves second gear. The familiar storyline doesn't offer anything I've not seen before, and the decision to have the Japanese actors speak in broken English with subtitles is an interesting idea I suppose, but just becomes slightly annoying and confusing. I would expect better from a director such as Takashi Miike, who made the excellent Audition (1999)and Ichi The Killer (2001). I just pray he doesn't become another homage-loving filmmaker like Tarantino.
The result was Four Rooms, and there's a reason Tarantino chooses to forget his own segment behind the camera when his trailers announce the new film as the nth of his career. It begins promisingly with a quirky animated intro that sets the goofy, unpredictable tone of the film, before diving into a collection of stories that appear to have been dreamt up in between bong hits. One thing Four Rooms has going for it is that the short films improve as we progress, but even Tarantino's final section reeks of narcissism and smugness. Anders' first story, about a coven of witches (including Ione Skye, Madonna, Alicia Witt, Lili Taylor, Sammi Davis and Valeria Golino) attempting to resurrect a goddess, may have worked for an episode of Charmed, but falls flat as the opener of what is supposed to be a collaboration between some of cinema's most exciting maverick filmmakers. Rockwell's short plonks Ted in the middle of psycho-sexual game between married couple Sigfried (David Proval) and Angela (Jennifer Beals).
