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But for all of these strengths, I have never found Tarantino to be an especially visual director. A contemporary filmmaker like David Fincher (Fight Club, Panic Room), for example, sends his camera soaring through walls, up staircases and down elevator shafts, letting his audience careen through a story like omnipotent voyeurs. Tarantino, conversely, seemed content to set the camera down, letting the actors and script do the work. Audiences were consequently given a far more intimate gift, in my opinion -- a fly-on-the-wall quality that put us right in the grit of Quentin's chatty underworld. With this in mind, I found myself awed but confused by the trailer for Kill Bill, his fourth and latest film. In fact, if Tarantino's name hadn't been projected up in 500 point all-caps font, I wouldn't have even guessed it was one of his. Why? Kill Bill looks positively breathtaking.
It's depressing to look at cinematography this good and think only cynical thoughts, but the trailer left me so jarred I couldn't help myself. To be blunt: what the hell? Kill Bill's trailer resembles Tarantino's previous work about as much as a slick showroom car does a dependable but unspectacular old clunker with some history and miles on it. The new-model vehicle looks stunning; but it offers none of the character and memories of the old. Should his fans be concerned? Maybe. We could very well be looking at the best of both worlds -- Tarantino's trademark flair for dialogue and character mingled effortlessly with a newfound talent for visual expression. Or, quite possibly, we're witnessing the final death throes of a once-promising filmmaker; one who, having lost confidence in his talents, has abandoned his unique storytelling approach in an attempt to compete for box office returns. Either sounds plausible based on the scant evidence given. Just from the trailer, though, it's disconcerting how few signature Tarantinoisms are on display. One overt "wink-and-a-nod" homage to seventies cinema gave me some comfort (the yellow-and-black-tracksuit of our heroine Uma Thurman), offering a welcome nudge in the ribs for anyone acquainted with the cult Bruce Lee classic Game of Death. (Several other obscure references presented themselves, but taking the time to list them would serve no other purpose than to illustrate how much bad kung fu I've watched, so I'll give it a pass.) Another Tarantinoism on display in the trailer: the signature camera shot from the trunk. (Though even this is slightly skewed, with a very different feel from his other films.)
But I guess that's the problem. It looks like a great movie. It just doesn't look like a Tarantino movie. Watching a visually arresting kung fu film by Quentin Tarantino strikes me as equivalent to visiting a seafood restaurant and ordering a cheeseburger (or a Royale with cheese, I suppose). There exist today dozens of filmmakers who do nothing but make excellent kung fu films, and they've honed their craft well enough to serve up the goods with precision, should you find yourself in the mood for them. Many other directors have mastered a visually arresting style, and the people who recognize such efforts usually have much to applaud and admire. Despite a score
of imitators, though, there exists only one Quentin Tarantino. Maybe
he's simply evolving -- I hope that's the case here. Because it would
sadden me if, as the number of Tarantinos drops from one to zero, the lone perk is that the aforementioned piles get added to by one. RATING:
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When
I think of Quentin Tarantino's films -- not a continual occurrence,
really, but one that pops up from time to time -- I think of great dialogue,
well delivered: apoplectic spat curses from Steve Buscemi; half-mumbles
and a hint of menace from Bruce Willis; smoothly snake-oiled intimidation
from Harvey Keitel. I think of underworld stories told with filthy-minded
minimalism and an effort to transcend the pulpy crime caper while wallowing
in its various excesses. Mostly I think of Tarantino himself -- a jumpy
film-geek with a flair for homage (that nice word for stealing), a great
ear for the rhythm and cadence of staccato dialogue, and an eagerness
to canonize the better aspects of bad films from the seventies.
I
don't mean this as a dig at poor Quentin; but as I mentioned, it's not
like people swarm to his films for the stunning cinematography. Yet
Kill Bill is a feast of visuals, with swooping cameras and colorfully
emotive scenery replacing the flat, muted backgrounds and stationary
shots of his previous efforts. In the very first scene, we see a 747
jumbo jet coasting over the vast cityscape of Hong Kong, the camera
unmoored and floating up through the sky as the jet descends. We cut
to Lucy Liu with a katana sword in fighting stance, and we encircle
her in slow-motion, moonlight filtering through gently falling snow.
We cut to Chinese mafia goons descending the staircase of a preposterously
vast Hong Kong bar, with shades of Kubrickian symmetry. We cut to a
blue-lit fight scene, all shadows and reflection, offering up a retro
wink while commanding our attention immediately. Even natural elements,
which were barely present in either Pulp Fiction or Reservoir
Dogs, are on display throughout; snow, sunlight, light and shadow
punctuate scenes with suggestive and emotive imagery.
But
these signature moments are few and far between. In their place is a
barrage of generic kung fu kicks and flashing katana blades. I guess
I can empathize with a filmmaker's need to take on new challenges to
avoid stagnation; and it's hardly surprising that he would pick this
genre of film to explore, as his earlier work has always suggested an
affinity for it. Luckily, it even looks like the exploration was a worthy
one. Set to a muddy-sounding guitar riff and backbeat, I'd be lying
if I said these scenes weren't kinetic and engaging. While the actors
in the film don't offer as compelling a mix as previous efforts (Uma
Thurman, Lucy Liu, Daryl Hannah and David Carradine this time around), the end result is still quirkily
tantalizing.