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In which Jason Griffenhagen (of Death by Sexy ,sharp dresser, and starlet) reviews (post-release) whatever movie was number 1 in the box office the previous weekend, and tells everyone why its fucking terrible. or good. 

This week despite all odds (and Meet the Robinsons/ Are We Done Yet actually beating him at the box office) Jason has enough and goes to see:   

Grindhouse – Finally, a film the entire family can enjoy.

Jesus, people, you need to calm down. I know how many of you keep up with the box office results every weekend. Frankly, when we’re all out having a gay old time at Ye Olde Noir Meow Meow, I don’t need you to tell me what movie came in first, how many millions of dollars such and such film made, and how many theaters Meet the Robinsons played in over the Easter weekend*. Its getting kind of strange, and more than the least bit disconcerting. So, all you box-office number groupies must already know that I’m not reviewing the number one film. I’ve already reviewed Blades of Glory once and, although I could say a few things about the best ice skate chase sequence in a film EVER, I really can’t fill up an entire column with more witticisms and snarky remarks about Will Ferrell.

The other 2 movies that made more money than the film I actually went to see were Meet the Robinsons and Are we Done Yet?** I assume no one who reads this gives two flying faggy froggy fucks about Meet the Robinsons, and I FLATLY REFUSE TO SEE a piss poor rehash of an originally shitty Tom Hanks film*** featuring ANY former members of Niggaz With Attitude. Although, I do have at least a begrudging respect for anyone who’ll whore themselves out more than my ex-girlfriend and get on their knees and suck satan’s cock**** as much as Ice Cube has in recent years. At least he has an idea of what his goal is in life, which is more than I can say for myself lately. Although, things would be a lot clearer if my goal was getting King-Henry-the-Eighth-I-am-royally-drunk and groping all of my female friends, but my goals usually involve one or the other of those things. The two of them together isn’t really that memorable for anyone, especially me.

   
 

What is slightly more productive, and quite a bit more fun, is drinking a bunch of Jim Beam and going to see Grindhouse, because about halfway through the film I was about to pronounce it THE BEST FILM YOU WILL SEE THIS YEAR*****. Then Tarantino’s Death Proof started, and I had to scratch that statement from my notes.

OK, time for some backstory for you uninformed dunderheads who don’t know anything about Grindhouse yet…It was designed by Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino to be an entire 3 hour experience of what it was like to go to an exploitation double feature in the seventies. They each direct one of the features(Mr. Rodriguez’s zombie-horror film Planet Terror, and Mr. Tarantino’s hell on wheels terror-fest Death Proof), plus there’s a bunch of pitch-perfect trailers for other B-movies that don’t exist(but definitely should) directed by the likes of Rob Zombie and Eli Roth.

I cannot tell you how awesome the entire experience was for me, especially being a total film geek who gets completely erect****** for anything involving exploitation and B-grade horror films. Everything was in place; Grindhouse simultaneously captures, gives homage to, and parodies the entire in-glorious-technicolor-experience of watching these films. The voice over on the trailers. The look and tone of the films. The John Carpenter-Esque score of Planet Terror. The lowest-common denominator baseness of the entire experience. Everything reminds me of the joy and pure deliciousness of staying up all night and watching films like Slaughter High, Blood-Sucking Freaks, Ilsa: She-Wolf of the SS, non-sensical Mario Bava splatter films, Herschell Gordon Lewis Gore Fests, and, of course, any fucking zombie movie I could get my hands on. If ever there was a film designed specifically for me it was this one.

   
 

Which is why I was completely let down with Mr. Tarantino’s offering. Whereas Mr. Rodriguez’s Planet Terror is fucking dead-on and easily the most viscerally incredible movie I’ve seen all year, Mr. Tarantino just didn’t seem to get it this time. I need to be straight for a second; Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction were THE REASON I went to film school, and I love every film he’s done so far. Mr. Tarantino, though, cannot be anything less than epic, and when he works in the short form, it doesn’t add up to much. Death Proof was half a Quentin Tarantino film, and not really a true exploitation film, so it felt like something was missing. Kill Bill Vol. 1 would be more appropriate for this venue than the overly talky and frankly, quite boring, second feature in Grindhouse. Like a stripper making small talk, you wish they’d just quit the jibber-jabber and get to the action.

   
 

Screw it, kids. At least I grew some balls and didn’t go to see Are We Don’t Yet? this week. As for next week, I’ll make you no promises, and I’ll tell you no lies. Which is a little more than Santa Claus can say, but a little less than the Easter Bunny. Holy mother-jugs-and-speed, I have no idea what I’m fucking talking about anymore.

REVIEW. OVER.

Next week: Halle Berry isn’t Bruce Willis’s long lost cousin from Mypos in Perfect Stranger, another graphic novel turned film violence-fest, Pathfinder, and some movie about terrorists invading Boston or something called Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Til’ then, I’m installing a breathalyzer on my cell phone so people don’t get hurt. Stay drunk, kids.

*Unless you are a fetching woman. Then talk to me about whatever the hell you want. Especially boobies. That’s a topic near and dear to my face. Uh…I mean, heart.

**Which is not a funny joke about Ice Cube talking to his manager about making more crap-ass family oriented films. Although, it could be.

***i.e. The Money Pit. Where’s Shelly Long when you need her?

****with apologies to Bill Hicks.

*****If I didn’t have to pee two times during it. And I don’t think the drinking is particularly helping my writing that much. I’ve written over half the review already, and I haven’t even said anything about the goddammed movie yet. Fuck it, time for another beer.

******Metaphorically, of course. As I said, I was drinking whiskey.

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