‘Grindhouse’ surrounded by irresistible movie love

The best moments of the double feature “Grindhouse”—and they usually come in long stretches of joy—understand that while actual grindhouse movies were about delivering sex and violence in copious amounts, the best of them were also full-fledged movies in their own right that had honest concepts about how best to dole out that sleaze. They weren’t just masturbatory fantasies—they were crafted with love, and in many ways represented cinema in its purest form.

Just look at the fake trailers that surround the double-header, which really feel like they could be blown up to feature-length status: Rob Zombie’s “Werewolf Women of the SS,” for example, understands that the Nazi exploitation flicks were less about the Nazis than surrounding themselves with fancy costumes and swastikas. Eli Roth’s “Thanksgiving,” meanwhile, has been compared to “Halloween,” but it’s more accurate to say that Roth studied the “Halloween” knock-offs more carefully than the genuine article—the films built on high hopes of the same independent success. Then there’s Edgar Wright’s “Don’t,” which captures the very essence of the sneakiest horror trailers by whetting the appetite while leaving us completely mystified as to what the movie is actually about. And yet you can still see yourself buying a ticket—it’s all about that divine feeling, you see, in seeing lawless films that existed outside of the mainstream, the ones that were so obsessed with viewer contentment that they were unafraid to offend or disgust.

So much movie love flies around “Grindhouse” that it’s fairly surprising to learn that only one of its feature presentations actually lives up to it. Now, lord knows that I loves me some zombies in my low-budget actioners (I grew up on “Dawn of the Dead,” after all), and you certainly gets your money’s worth in Robert Rodriguez’s “Planet Terror.” No complicated setup necessary: a deadly virus is spreading across the countryside, resulting in a ready-made army of the violent, blood-dripping undead; the only hope for survival lies in a ragtag group led by an Eastwoodesque drifter (Freddy Rodriguez) and his old flame (Rose McGowan), a stripper who eventually has her right leg replaced with an M-16. It has all the earmarks of an awesome flick, but it feels strangely workmanlike; the reason why is elusive, until Rodriguez tries to replicate the grindhouse experience in whole: the film overheats and melts, and we supposedly lose an entire reel of it—when we return, we have missed a significant chunk of plot, abruptly throwing us into the action again. It’s worth a cheap laugh, I guess, but without that “missing” reel, “Planet Terror” is essentially an 80-minute-long trailer for itself, and that’s a deadly prospect. Rodriguez is essentially saying that grindhouse films are stupid because they don’t deliver the goods fast enough, so while you deserve an entire film experience it should only be loaded wall-to-wall with over-the-top ridiculousness. But without buildup, the release is shallow, and Rodriguez’s hostility towards the subject at hand rings through loud and clear.

The second half of the bill, Quentin Tarantino’s “Death Proof,” purports to have a missing reel as well, one which actually eliminates the seedier aspects of the plot. Stuntman Mike (a fantastic Kurt Russell) is a stuntman, of course, who drives a Dodge Charger so tricked out with movie set accoutrements that it guarantees total safety in the event of a severe crash—safety for the driver, anyway—and it isn’t long before we learn that he gets his sexual jollies by offing women with it. Unfortunately, he crosses a few veteran stuntwomen (led by real-life stuntwoman Zoë Bell) in the process, which can only lead to trouble. The missing reel ostensibly removes a tawdry lap dance, one which isn’t really necessary to understanding what’s going on; with this and the various plot twists in mind, we can see that Tarantino is attempting to reconcile his love of women with his love of cinema, equating himself with Stuntman Mike in how he, as the creator of many mad tales, has put many a woman’s life and respect in figurative and real-life danger for the purpose of a thrill. He finds it only fair, then, to finally indulge in the female revenge genre and give his victims a chance to pick up a lead pipe and fight back. And yet “Death Proof” isn’t about easy payoff. It forces us to become emotionally invested in its villain and heroines before topping things off with one of the most exciting car chases ever committed to film; even then, the orgasmic “The End” that finishes things off still leaves a few threads dangling. But Tarantino is so in tune with his senses that he knows precisely what matters and what doesn’t in conveying his specialized brand of cinema—something that Rodriguez only wished that he knew. So spectacular is “Death Proof,” in fact, that it makes sitting through the mediocre “Planet Terror” worthwhile, not just on its own merits but because it makes us realize what it means, exactly, to adore the silver screen.