Death Proof by Paul Bullock

Three years on from the mess of blood, gore and self-indulgent film references that was the Kill Bill saga, Quentin Tarantino is back and he's still not learnt his lesson. Still obsessed with exploitation, he’s once more reaching into the depths of his voluminous DVD collection to smugly select another batch of obscure films that‘ll prove just how cool he is. This time around though, its not kung-fu, but sleazy horror that he’s been watching for his contribution to Grindhouse, the highly-anticipated three-hour homage to 70s exploitation films which was due to include Planet Terror, a similarly-influenced zombie flick from Tarantino’s partner-in-grime Robert Rodriquez.

But so completely has Tarantino succeeded in his task of referencing films no-one wants to see, that he’s gone and made a film of his own that no-one wants to see. Upon release in America during the summer, Grindhouse flopped big-time, making only a miserly $11million on its opening weekend. Producer Harvey Weinstein quickly took action and decided to make the picture more palatable to audiences who don't spend all their free time obsessively looking for battered old VHS's on eBay by splitting the two films into separate, extended entities; Death Proof, previously ninety minutes now one hundred and twenty, released now, with Terror set to follow sometime next year.

So Entertainment Manchester is at something of a disadvantage here. We haven’t seen the original, three-hour orgy of Grindhouse, only heard tales of ‘Scene Missing’ cards and fake trailers directed by Eli Roth (cameoing here along with Tarantino himself), Edgar Wright and Rob Zombie, splitting the two films up. Returned to its original ninety minute running length, complete with all the retro trimmings and safe in the warm confines of generic context, perhaps - and it’s a very big perhaps - Death Proof is one of the films of the year. But taken out of its gaggle of grinning geeks it’s at a loose end, struggling to work out exactly what it is.

Kurt Russell plays Stuntman Mike, a psychopathic former movie daredevil with a nasty habit of ramming down nubile young girls in his souped-up ‘death proof’ car. So with this and a couple of gory death scenes, is it true to Tarantino’s “slasher film at 200mph” description? Not quite. It’s far too slow and Russell's nowhere near menacing enough for that. With its references to classic car movie Vanishing Point and the work of Russ Meyer (Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill especially), it could quite happily be a simple car chase flick. But there's not enough actual chase for that. So is it postmodern pastiche? Dark comedy? Revenge movie? Not intelligent, funny or violent enough…

Tarantino film? Yes, and no. All the typical QT traits (car boot POV shots, intrusive cameos, feet…) are present and correct, and he’s still able to effortlessly muster up cool, with the credits sashaying giddily to the beat of April March’s bubblegum confection ‘Chick Habit’. But while Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction thrilled with their exhilarating structural gymnastics and unrelenting pace, Death Proof bores. The extensive dialogue scenes, so fresh and fun in the past, feel interminably long and self-indulgent in a film that's supposed to be homaging a fast, thrilling genre, and the pop culture references, previously so universal and subtle, are now so obscure and forcibly hit home that Tarantino comes across like a head cheerleader, mocking viewers because they aren‘t cool enough to have seen the films he has.

Even the strong women, his saving grace in the dreadful Kill Bill Vol.2, are here turned into empty, irritating caricatures. Mike’s targets fall into two groups. In the first half we are introduced to racial stereotype Jungle Julia (Sydney Poitier), loudmouthed white girl Shanna (Cheryl Ladd) and down to earth Arlene (Vanessa Ferlito). They go to a bar, talk sex and drink, get bumped off and, Tarantino seemingly running out of ideas, are replaced by racial stereotype Kim (Tracie Tomas), loudmouthed white girl Zoe Bell (the Kill Bill stuntwoman playing herself…badly) and down to earth Abbey (Rosario Dawson), who are once again targeted by Mike, but this time fight back in a climactic and admittedly thrillingly realistic car chase.

Female empowerment, or, thanks to the numerous shots of wriggling flesh and sweaty lap dances, misogyny? Tarantino certainly believes he's made the former and the girls' obvious independence backs him up. But it's difficult to assess Death Proof’s feminist qualities because so shrouded is the film in a thick veneer of postmodern irony that even the more dubious scenes of salacious flesh, tight, figure-hugging clothing and female torment can be given a positive spin. After all, exploitation films were littered with these things (and genre mash-ups, poorly defined characters and dull pacing), so surely including them in Death Proof is only making the pastiche more rich and detailed and the film more of a success.

Ten years ago, when postmodernism felt fresh, new and exciting, perhaps that would have been enough to wow us. Now, however, it amounts to nothing more than a bad ironic joke that's already been told a thousand times before and a thousand times better (by Wes Craven in particular). Ultimately, Death Proof isn’t the work of a feminist, a misogynist, an arch postmodernist or even a good director. It’s the work of a previously brilliant director who once struck gold with a certain style and has failed to evolve ever since. Tarantino is so, so much better than this and if he wants to be remembered as such it’s time he stopped homaging cinema history and got back to making some of his own.