Redemption in filmmaking.

I am quite certain that the people who saw me grinning as I walked down the street about an hour ago probably would not have guessed that I was grinning because I'd just sat through three hours of mind-numbing, senseless, graphic, campy, gritty, sarcastic, bloody, star-/cameo-/violence-/action-packed mayhem.

It's true. Hell, even I found my grinning a little hard to believe, but I really just couldn't help myself. Sin City had the same effect on me. I'm not sure what that says about me... and I don't want to know.

As with Sin City, I can't believe the man who brought you Spy Kids also brought you Planet Terror. And with Death Proof, Quentin has officially redeemed himself for that American Idol/CSI nonsense. Fans will note his trademarks: snappy curse-laden dialogue, obscure references to 70's pop culture, beautifully choreographed fight scenes and that brilliant 7-minute continuous shot of a conversation around a round table.

I also realized today why I probably didn't like Hostel - I tried to watch it on my little 19-inch TV. Anything Tarantino is associated with is meant to be viewed on a ginormous screen with excellent sound. Note to self.

In fact, if you are at all interested in seeing this film, unless you have a 52 inch screen and room for 20 friends, do not queue it up in your Netflix. GO TO THE THEATER. It was all about the entire experience this afternoon - the Grand Lake, filled with a bunch of late 20's/early 30's hipster types who GOT IT and clapped and laughed and groaned and squealed at all the appropriate places.

The Parkway would be ideal... I almost held out for that but my curiosity got the better of me.

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As an aside, I think Quentin is starting to rival Joss in the "women power and I'll be over here" sense. Starting to. He most certainly is not there yet.