I liked it. It is a good movie.
But, "if you are even the slightest bit squeamish, do not see this movie," is what should be flashed across the screen in five-foot-tall letters after the final preview ends and before the opening titles begin, because, while this is a good movie with fantastic fight scenes and a stellar soundtrack, it is entirely too bloody.
But it's good.
Gone is Tarantino's trenchant dialogue, which, once upon a time, gave even Uma Thurman's bland performance the smallest glimmer of life. Framed not by that hideous black wig, but this time by golden tresses, Thurman spews, like so much of her opponents' blood (That's clever.), unfortunate one-liners, citing a popular sugary cereal mascot of the Genus Oryctolagus (Read: Rabbit). But let's face it (How's that working out for you?), after seeing the previews (What?), I wasn't there for the acting (Being clever.).
Thurman's character (We don't know her name. Both times it is uttered, early in the movie, it is bleeped.) is a caucasian American versed moreso than anyone else in the film in the ways of slicing the hell out of people with her Samurai sword (How was she trained? We don't know. Perhaps that, along with other nagging questions [such as "What is Tarantino's deal with peoples' feet?" and "How the fuck did she survive a gunshot wound to the head?"], will be answered in Volume II.). That the movie is a walking, talking anachronism, however, doesn't bother me. What bothers me, aside from the gallons upon gallons of fake blood, is that no sooner was one character's arm removed (Removed is such the wrong word, but I want to use "lopping" really, really soon.), my own started tingling. Either that's really good filmmaking, or I'm in the midst of a myocardial infarction as we speak.
Tarantino defies you to label this movie. I, however futile it may be, am going to give it a shot: This is a movie about lopping (See?) off limbs, and the amount of blood that results in so doing.
And there is, as I mentioned before, plenty of said blood.
Peace.
-Todd
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