Moral Midgetry

Kurt Vonnegut, the smartest, funniest man I never knew, died Wednesday at the age of 84 after suffering brain injuries in a fall weeks ago in his Manhattan home. This is a drawing that Vonnegut himself did regarding his death. Go to his official web page and this is all you’ll see.

I was going to do my taxes this weekend, but instead I believe I’ll reread Breakfast of Champions, my personal favorite. Here’s what New York Times reviewer Christopher Lehmann-Haupt had to say about it. “Vonnegut's novel makes pornography seem like any old plumbing, violence like lovemaking, innocence like evil, and guilt like child's play.” That’s not what I remember getting out of the book, but whatever.

The irony that damage to that amazing, inventive brain is what killed Vonnegut is not lost on me.

So it goes.

I know one thing for certain about Quentin Tarantino and have a suspicion about a second.

The first is that he is a terrible actor. Whenever he pops up on screen I cringe knowing one of two things is coming: smug Tarantino, or irritating Tarantino. Usually it’s both. So, unless he has a funny monologue about “Madonna’s big dick” and then gets shot in the head like Mr. Brown I don’t want to see him on screen.

The second thing is that I’m starting to think he’s a terrible director. You want (death)proof, let’s examine his oeuvre. Reservoir Dogs his first film, is nearly perfect. It’s thrilling, intense, and defies expectations. It’s populated with unsympathetic characters yet Tarantino makes you care about them, and every second of its 100 minutes is filled with interesting dialogue and character development that leads to a fantastic payoff. A masterpiece.

Pulp Fiction is a very good film that holds up on repeated viewing, but can you honestly tell me there aren’t parts you fast forward through now? I’ll even tell you where they are; it starts once Uma makes the square with her fingers and ends at the dance. The whole Jack Rabbit Slim scene could have been cut down to a minute and a half.

I was tempted to ignore his segment in the long forgotten Four Rooms, a snoozer with different stories directed by young, mid-1990s indie talents, but found I couldn't. Tarantino’s “The Man from Hollywood” is a rip off of any Twilight Zone which itself is a rip off of almost any Roald Dahl story, but that’s not my problem with it. The problem is that it’s a boring gabfest where nothing happens until the last five minutes – a sign of things to come.

Jackie Brown, runs the same length as Pulp Fiction, 154 minutes, and has a very good movie somewhere in it, but I’ll tell you where it’s not. It’s not towards the end of the film where Tarantino shows us the exact same thing from three different points of view without giving ANY new information that wasn’t there the first time we saw the scene.

Kill Bill Parts I & II could have just been Kill Bill – one 2-hour film. Kill Bill I is nothing but fight scene after fight scene. It was fun the first time but now I find it impossible to sit through while Kill Bill II is a boring soliloquy fest. “Are we going to fight or are you going to talk me to death?” The Bride asks Bill when they FINALLY meet and, as it turns, out he tries to talk her to death.

Which brings me to Grindhouse – a exceptionally fun film with Robert Rodriguez's best work to date except that, in the print I saw, some joker replaced more than half of Tarantino’s segment with the most boring teen sex comedy ever. Over fifty minutes of Tarantino’s Death Proof is filled with inane dialogue. “So, you seeing a boy?” “Maybe” “Well, are you?” “Yes.” “Have you kissed him?” “Maybe.” Well, have you?” “Yes, but we kept our clothes on.” And on and on and on, it doesn’t stop. In fact, nearly the exact same conversation happens AGAIN with a second set of characters. After the thrill ride Grindhouse had been, Tarantino’s segment stops the film cold and it never regains momentum. Yes, Tarantino’s segment finally pays off in the end, and I understand building character, but when does that become boring-the-audience? Ten minutes into Death Proof, that’s when.

Tarantino LOVES his own dialogue. He loves hearing himself talk whether he’s doing it or it’s through his characters. Now there’s talk of dividing Grindhouse and releasing the movies separately with added footage. A longer Death Proof, I rather take a ride in Kurt Russell’s passenger seat. (Speaking of Russell – he give his best performance in years and Death Proof is worth sitting through just to see him dismantle the typical serial killer movie stereotypes.)

I’m surprised to find I no longer enjoy hearing Tarantino talk. In fact, I haven’t enjoyed it for a while. So, was wrong. Tarantino is a fine director, he’s just a completely worthless editor.

Hey Tarantino: make a move that tops out at 100 minutes, maybe I’ll see it. But if you ever get around to making, Inglorious Bastards, the 3-hour plus World War II epic you’ve been talking about for years, count me out.