Death Proof

I hope someone got to see Slavoj Žižek in the great "Pervert's Guide to Cinema" at the HFA this weekend. I spent Friday night watching two other pervs. I saw "Grindhouse." Appropriately, at about 2:15 a.m., Tarantino's "Death Proof" ended with three exclamation points, and I promptly screamed, "Oh my God" to my friends.

Throughout “Death Proof” I kept wondering why this feels so different from Rodriguez’s half, and it’s because “Planet Terror,” tasty as it is, feels like a study in reconstructing a genre. You can see the cartoon-thought squiggles over almost every scene. This isn’t to say it’s not fun. It just conjures none of the pure ecstasy Tarantino’s movie does.

“Death Proof” is an unbridled act of joy. And a relief, too. As a friend noted on the way out of the theater, Tarantino loves women, fun ones: brave, strong, stupid, stoned, sober. I think every new car made should meet strict, low carbon emission standards and have a Zoë Bell hood ornament.