"Grindhouse," Weinstein Co, 2007

Grindhouse (2007)
Directed by Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino

It sure sounded like an easy sell: the two biggest names in independent action pictures teaming up for a double feature full of babes, blood, blow outs and bullets. But Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's surprising 2007 flop "Grindhouse" had an unforeseen problem: it tried to drum up nostalgia for a place few people have visited and most of those who had would probably rather forget. The two-film attraction (which ran over three hours when you added in all the extra fake exploitation trailers) was sold on its faithful recreation of the experience of the grindhouse theaters, the former movie palaces that fell on hard times and began to cater to a clientele of junkies, sex workers, the homeless and assorted other characters. "You didn't even stand near [a grindhouse]," wrote Bill Landis and Michelle Clifford in their chronicle of New York's old Times Square "Sleazoid Express," "unless you wanted a drug addict streetwalker propositioning you." Even if Rodriguez and Tarantino legitimately wanted to approximate that atmosphere, their team-up was screened in the comfortable confines of multiplexes and malls. That disconnect between intent and execution is all over "Grindhouse." It celebrates film artifacts -- cigarette burns, missing reels, bad splices, color erosion -- but (at least in the case of Rodriguez's half) it's shot digitally. Ultimately, these men are fetishizing what most of the moviegoing public would describe as "a bad time at the movies." Still, the Weinstein Company was surprised when the film failed to meet expectations at the box office, ("Grindhouse"'s $25.4 million take ultimately proved to be the lowest gross by either director since their last collaboration, 1995's "Four Rooms.") But maybe this was exactly what Rodriguez and Tarantino wanted. When the film didn't perform well in theaters, the Weinsteins split the pictures on DVD and internationally; to date, there is no forthcoming special edition that restores "Grindhouse" to its original three-hour-plus form. This is exactly the sort of circumstances that make fertile ground for the development of a true cult film.

The one exception to the rule is Larry Blamire's "Lost Skeleton of Cadavra," whose approximation of Z-grade '50s horror is so on the nose, it could almost masquerade as the real thing (the digital photography is the only immediately obvious tell). Blamire's homage features genre hallmarks like laughable dialogue ("Betty, you know what this meteor could mean to science. It could mean actual advances in the field of science."), laughable props (the aliens' "transmutatron" is a none-too-carefully disguised calking gun), and laughable effects (no attempt is made to disguise the wires propping up the famed "lost skeleton"). While it is deliberate camp, it's also quite innocent as well, and even affectionate in its reproduction of Bronson Canyon hijinks. The actors (including Blamire himself, who plays the lead nimrod scientist as well as the voice of the supremely dickish Lost Skeleton) seem to admire their talent-challenged forefathers and perform their roles with as much reverence as satire. If, as Sontag wrote, the point of camp is "to be serious about the frivolous" in service of "a comic vision of the world," then "Lost Skeleton" is truly pure camp. And naturally, a sequel is on the way.

Name (Required)

Email Address (Required, not displayed)

URL

Type your comments here...