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Over Kill
Tarantino foots the Bill in Volume 1
BY PETER KEOUGH
Kill Bill: Volume 1
Directed and written by Quentin Tarantino. With Uma Thurman, Vivica A. Fox, Lucy Liu, David Carradine, Daryl Hannah, Michael Madsen, Julie Dreyfuss, Chiaki Kuriyama, Sonny Chiba, and Michael Parks. A Miramax Films release. 93 minutes. At area theaters.


What kind of films will Quentin Tarantino be making — if any — when he reaches Clint Eastwood’s ripe age of 73? In the meantime, it’s hard to imagine two more disparate films than Mystic River and Kill Bill: Volume 1. Eastwood’s masterpiece explores the roots and consequences of revenge and violence and reaches for Sophoclean tragedy. Tarantino’s tour de force exploits the spectacle and chic of revenge and violence and provides the first half (how arbitrarily the original three-hour epic was chopped in two for convenience of release will be seen in February with the release of Volume 2 ) of "the 4th Film by Quentin Tarantino," as the film’s poster and ads grandiosely announce it.

Reason enough to go see it, I suppose, though this fourth outing lacks the audacity of Reservoir Dogs, the formal ingenuity and sly irony of Pulp Fiction, or the emotional core of Jackie Brown. What it has is in-your-face fetishism, quite literally in the case of Uma Thurman’s feet, which dominate the screen with unhealthy frequency (true, her foot massage in Pulp was a key plot point, but was never shown).

Other preoccupations include recurrent scenes of children watching a parent’s violent death, the spectacle of women inventively butchered, often by other women, and, of course, the usual assortment of prominently displayed edged weapons and offensive words ("bitch" is his new favorite).

These strange fascinations don’t quite detract from what Tarantino does best, such as skewing narrative structure (here more arbitrary than enlightening, with numbered and titled chapters put in non-chronological order, the point of which, if any, we’ll have to wait until February to find out), synthesizing eclectic pop-cultural references (though this time they seem more footnotes than vital parts), and putting together stunning montages.

The latter knack he establishes with the opening scene, a black-and-white close-up of the bloody, gasping face of the Bride (an athletic but uncharismatic Thurman); the approaching boots (those feet again) of her reptilian killer, Bill (David Carradine); his soothing, sinister words; a gunshot; and the campy surge of Nancy Sinatra singing of Sonny Bono’s "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)" on the soundtrack.

Tarantino never fully regains the verve and authority of these first few minutes, though the subsequent tale of the murderous assault on the Bride’s wedding party, her survival, coma, rebirth, and subsequent campaign of vengeance against Bill and his Deadly Viper Assassination Squad (of which the Bride, a/k/a the Black Mamba, apparently, was one — stay tuned for Volume 2 for more details, though the suspense is scarcely unbearable) sustains interest in the slow spaces between flamboyant set pieces (credit is given in the press notes to the 1967 Hong Kong martial arts movie One-Armed Swordsman for the plot, but not to the more obvious source, François Truffaut’s 1968 noir The Bride Wore Black).

Those set pieces include a duel with kitchen utensils between the Bride and Copperhead, a/k/a. Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox), a former Viper, now suburban homemaker; the bloody origins of the Viper Cottonmouth, a/k/a. O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu), rendered in part as Japanese animé; and a climactic showdown in which the Bride battles an army of teenaged, black-suit-jacketed ninjas called the Crazy 88s who multiply faster than the Mr. Smiths in The Matrix Reloaded.

The sound and fury of slashing Samurai swords, spouting arteries, dismembered body parts, and eviscerated adolescents orchestrated by Hong Kong martial arts choreographer Yuen Wo-Ping underscore the sad fact that Tarantino’s action scenes are now far wittier than his dialogue. Nor does the film’s encyclopedic references to international pulp-movie esoterica, scattered about like index cards, fill its emotional and spiritual void. Kill Bill may excite, but it doesn’t move.

Except, perhaps, when it hardly moves at all. The film’s most powerful image is the startling plop and gurgle of a rustic water pump that cuts the stillness preceding a key confrontation. It’s a touch that Akira Kurosawa would have been proud of. As for the depth, breadth, wisdom, and humanity that old masters like Kurosawa or Eastwood bring to the screen, Tarantino has a lot of growing up to do.


Issue Date: October 10 - 16, 2003
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