Review: Death Proof

JasonReviewsDeath Proof – 2007 – USA – Genius Products Inc.

Bored to tears.

That was to be my completed review of this insulting piece of offal, but I figured I might like to take some potshots at one of my most despised Hollywood “personalities,” just for shits and giggles. And that would be my favorite mongoloid, Quentin Tarantino, who looks like he just walked off of the set of “The Hills Have Eyes” as an extra. The man is an icon amongst the vapid Gen-X/Y hipster crowd, and let those over-groomed beacons of superficiality have him. Tarantino represents everything I despise about people today in general, and Hollywood filmmaking in specific, so it makes perfect sense that the uninitiated “herd” embraces the pirating bastard, oohing and ahhing over his every move. Let them eat cake… with broken glass icing on top.

I am convinced Tarantino is an idiot-savant (without the savant part), absolutely incapable of doing anything original. What he does is rehash exact duplicates of scenes, characters, and storylines from some truly inspired (and conveniently obscure) sources, and Xeroxes them into mega-budgeted, superfluous and pretentious rubbish. His ephemerally hip, jargon-encrusted and totally inane scripts require mega-caliber performances to pull off his overwrought dialogue, but his inability to reel in or competently direct his actors nixes any chance getting them. It makes me mad as hell to hear people chatter on about what they like from his films, when I know full well it was directly stolen from material that I hold dear. Fuck him for his plagiarism and fuck them for their ignorance.

This film was more of the same, but I dare say worse than I am accustomed to from the thieving fuck-wad. A gaggle of two-dimensional girls get together for Friday night drunken debauchery and we are “treated” to their contrived and pea-brained conversation for 40 minutes until the bad-guy shows up. Bad-guy oozes his way into their good graces for another 15 minutes until he finally smashes them to smithereens with his car. A year goes by in the film (and in the viewers’ lives) and repeat same with an all-new scatterbrained gaggle of girls. Only the second time around, after an entirely illogical and long-winded car chase, gaggle #2, which sports a couple of stereotypical “tough girls,” beats the bad-guy at his own game. End movie.

Kurt Russell delivers a fine performance as the grizzled everyman “bad-guy,” Stuntman Mike, a role which he has been reprising for 30 years. His character just happens to be a murderous bastard with a serial bent, but his characters devolution to whimpering pantywaist when the tables are turned is asinine and improbable. The girls are, without exception, flimsy cardboard characters who I wanted to destroy after two minutes. The cars are cool, though. Too bad they can’t act.

Script? Weak and trifling. Direction? Excessive and redundant. Acting? Could you do better with this dreckish dialogue to work with? Somebody send this hack back to his counter-jockey position at the video store as the smarmy know-it-all clerk who every renter would rather smash in the face than deal with. I have a heap of rotten tomatoes to bestow upon him, along with some mud for his eye. Fuck you, Quentin, may you live long and suffer.

Jason’s Grade: F


5 comments so far

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  1. I love you, Jason. No, not in a funny way, but this is probably reason #231 why we’re friends.

    This movie should be renamed “Plot Proof” because it inoculates itself against any chance of attaining any sort of an engaging or even relevant story. In short, Tarantino’s umpteenth cinematic snoozefest is basically bitches (TWO sets of them, even) yammering inanely for what seems like forever… but with a few deaths thrown in. It’s not interesting as a horror movie, a psycho-thriller, an exploitation flick, or even some random video chatter in the background while I do something as important as clipping my toenails. Frankly, I’m not sure who should be put out of their misery quicker: Tarantino, or people who like this dreck dealer’s output.

    I wish Russ Meyer could rise from the grave and rend this pretentious wastrel limb from limb. Oh, yes, and Jason and I get to watch. And take pictures.

  2. I had spoken to Jason previously, and at length, about how much I personally despise Tarrantino and his horde of sniveling sycophants- Roth, Rodriguez, Zombie, all of them.

    The fact that they are even allowed to make films convinces me that cinema, as an art form, is dead.

  3. Cinema in the United States died as an art form when the studios were allowed to buy up theaters again (after a 40 year ban) under the Reagan administration. Subsequently, the indies had no place to show their films anymore save the home video market which had put the nail in the coffin of the grind-house and drive-in showcases. So what we got were lowest common denominator independent films with lurid box covers (and not much else going for them) which were marketed to nascent film-viewers and morons. And, on the other side, swollen budgeted studio pics which were made under very reserved “play it safe’ mentalities because so much money was at stake. And guess what, those were marketed towards nascent film-viewers and morons too.
    And it has only gotten worse.
    It is unbelievable how much garbage one has to sift through these days to find a decent film. The ratio is absolutely exasperating. The intelligent audience has had no choice but to become eager archivists and researchers into the bygone (halcyon) days of film entertainment. I know I must sound like a cantankerous bastard, but it is time to tear it all down and start again. I will be the first in line, torch in hand and twinkle in eye.
    Care to join me?

  4. Finally, someone who agrees with me. I HATE Tarantino, always have.

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