D: Robert Rodriguez
S: Harvey Keitel, George Clooney, Quentin Tarantino, Juliet Lewis
To say From Dusk Till Dawn is a violent film is no more insightful
than to observe that violence exists. To say it has no redeeming features
is to make a judgment based on a personal reaction. To ban the film on these
bases smacks of totalitarianism. Nonetheless the Irish Film Censor saw fit
to keep this from all but the eyes of those lucky enough to secure a ticket
for the Dublin Film Festival screening. Not that it was really worth that
much effort, or that much hysteria on the part of the censor. The film is
finally an enjoyable, self-indulgent postmodern pastiche so loaded with
wannabe cultisms that it was always destined for devotion from legions of
diehard film fetishists who would inevitably scour the face of the earth
to find a copy once anyone in authority said a mean word about it. In banning
it, the censor has merely elevated it to the status of a motion picture
martyr, adding notoriety to its obvious bag of tricks. Yes, it is violent,
and it is ultimately a shallow rehash of familiar generic ingredients and
themes. But it is certainly no more violent than the average action film
and no more shallow than any work of postmodernist art, though the tongue-in-cheek
amorality and the gloopy make-up effects make it a bit more visceral. It
is certainly more upmarket than some of the low-budget eighties flicks of
which it is highly reminiscent (it is practically a remake of Vamp
with gangsters instead of teenage sex comedy as the generic hook), and comes
close to having enough style to pull of the delicate balancing act of making
the ridiculous seem sublime (but doesn't quite make it). But at the end
of the day; it's only a movie, Ingrid, so why get excited?
The plot follows the disjointed adventures of two murderous brothers (Clooney
and Tarantino) on the run following a bank heist. They kidnap faithless
preacher Keitel, his family and his RV, then head south of the border. Here
the movie takes an abrupt turn from black comic heist into slapstick grand
guignol as the sleazy Mexican bar where they plan to meet a criminal
contact turns out to be a vampire lair. Though the film has been casually
violent and occasionally gross to this point, it is at this moment that
things get messy. If the presence of makeup artist Tom Savini among the
clientele at the bar does not trigger chuckles of recognition, then it may
take you by surprise. It's Dawn of the Dead meets Tex Avery, and
you'd better find a way to orient yourself to the material or you'll find
yourself repulsed or gob-smacked.
Robert Rodriguez directs the film with energy and style, but is a shade
too concerned with affect to draw convincing characters from Tarantino's
paper-thin script. The opening scenes are marvellous, and promise great
things to come. The brothers face off against a Texas Ranger and a convenience
store clerk in a John Woo/El Mariachi shoot-out which ends with a
tremendous explosion and the title card. But it actually never gets any
deeper and we learn nothing more about these characters from one end to
the next. We simply follow their bloody trail to its natural end and conclude
that they're no Butch and Sundance, or even Abbot and Costello.
Clooney is all bustle as the fast-talking antihero, but never really comes
alive beyond no-shit one-liners and fast, violent reactions to everything
he touches. As his brother, Tarantino has little depth as a performer and
fails to imbue his psychotic pervert with the kind of twisted likability
necessary to make him both sympathetic and frightening in the manner of
Norman Bates or Hannibal Lecter. Keitel (who receives first billing) seems
to be taking his part quite seriously, and does okay, but he operates in
a low key which saps the pace. The most enjoyable performances come from
the supporting cast, clearly drawn to the project as much for fun as for
self-reflexivity. Tom Savini is hilarious as the delightfully named Sex
Machine, Fred Williamson parodies the blaxploitation characters of Tarantino's
youth with aplomb and Cheech Marin has his best roles in years as three
different characters, including a foul-mouthed doorman.
The film is so replete with self-referential gags and asides that despite
the organising presence of Rodriguez and the story credit for make-up designer
Robert Kurtzman, the film belongs in Tarantino's canon. At the very least
it represents a meeting of minds; a nexus of postmodern movie brats fully
versed in the intricacies of good moments from bad movies, and with enough
clout to raise a budget. So for those for whom the film represents a moral
threat, it must bode badly for the future of cinema and hearken a return
to the dark ages of censorial scissor-waving. For those raised on much the
same kind of material as the makers, it must be a pinnacle of sorts, especially
given its noted lack of authoritative approval. But it's really much ado
about nothing, and should be seen strictly without expectation either way.
With a bit more discipline, the script could possibly have been tweaked
into something sneakily effective, but that may have hurt its sense of fun,
and it is a heartfelt desire to have a good time making the movie which
seems to have driven its makers. Of course, this is not always a recipe
for success (Alex Cox's ill-fated Straight to Hell leaps to mind),
but is usually works on the cult circuit. So I guess the irony (which may
be the intention) of the film is that it is likely to inspire future generations
of similarly crap-happy would-be directors to have a go at that idea they
had that one night when they were drunk and rented out some godawful film
from the local video store... "it's like this you see, there's these
cowboys and these vampires..."
Review by Harvey O'Brien copyright
1997.