I currently live in a house, until the first of year, with a couple who love television. I mean, LOVE: when they moved in, they brought with them their complete package of digital cable-expanded package-premium channels, and continue to pay an extra share for it to continue to be a reality in the house. I've never been much of a TV-watcher, but with literally 500 channels to choose from, it's hard not to find myself sitting on the couch with Die Hard going in the background while I mindlessly grade papers.
Die Hard post forthcoming. Don't think I won't post on that Christmas-time gem.
Tonight, as I sit down to crank out some notes from the evening pastor search committee, I see Kurt Russell driving a car like hell through a deserted backroad, with Rosario Dawson in close pursuit. Obviously, I am intrigued. It's a meeting of Overboard and Rent: what's not to hate about this trainwreck already?
A quick look at the information on the cable reveals that this is indeed Quentin Tarrantino's Grindhouse. For the next 30 minutes, I watch Russell drive with a bullet in his shoulder, pursued by three violent--yet mildly attractive--women until they run Russell off the road. And stomp on Russell's face with a stilleto.
There might have been a time when I liked the Tarrantino films. I still admire portions of Pulp Fiction, mostly because it's a highlight for both Samuel L and John Travolta, gems in an otherwise lackluster decade of films for both actors. I love the pontifications of Pulp Fiction; I enjoy the snazz of watching Uma Thurman kick ass; I really get tired of the gratuitous violence. A stilleto? To the face? Really?
One and a half Dodge Chargers out of five. Quentin, I am losing my patience.