A Feminist Reading of Grindhouse

Grindhouse Poster, (courtesy of FirstShowing.net)Oh lovely Grindhouse, which continues to grace movie theaters without praise. How could a comedic, zombie-filled extravaganza mixed with the action of Kill Bill and the gritty detail of 28 Days Later flunk so badly in the box office? Aren’t the lot of you deranged, halfwit, homoerotic barbarians from 300 pleased with the inclusion of Rose McGowan in her titular role as a walking bazooka?! Or is it because you don’t like the fact that her character self-actualizes by literally penetrating to death her predatory male counterparts? That’s right, friends, Grindhouse is undoubtedly a “chick-flick.” This is tongue-in-cheek girl power for the 21st century. Rodriguez has given you what Brokeback Mountain could not, a character whose (albeit absurd and fire-powered) idiosyncrasy neither predetermines her destiny nor invalidates it.

Now granted, the subject matter and dialogue of “Planet Terror” is ridiculous. And that’s the point—this is exploitation cinema. You’re supposed to be able to predict every line that comes out of these characters’ mouths and relish in that power. “Planet Terror” invites this kind of interactivity in the film. When El Ray says, “I never miss,” it’s both the most trite, hypermasculine locution ever uttered and exactly true to form. At the same time, this is exploitation cinema that reinvents the genre: Rodriguez and Tarantino underwrite “Planet Terror” and “Deathproof” with themes that subvert the senseless sensationalism promoted by the original 1970’s genre films.

Now here’s the kicker. Tarantino follows up “Planet Terror” with two groups of women in “Deathproof,” whose narcissistic dialogue almost invariably causes (chauvinistic, piggish) male moviegoers to grunt uncomfortably with boredom. Why is that, do you think? Is it because men can’t handle women objectifying them as sex-objects? Or is it less sophisticated than that? Perhaps men want women on the big screen to remain silent or speechless as a subspecies prone to their influence—dead in one sense, and therefore easier to access. Is it still the case that “the death… of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world,” as Edgar Allan Poe would have it?

When we first meet Stuntman Mike, he is undoubtedly the uber-male, whose demeanor suggests he is above the amateurish, booze-talking pranks of his college-age counterparts (these boys plot to essentially drug-rape Jungle Julia’s gang by weaseling their way into a girls-only weekend out). What is the appeal of Stuntman Mike’s character upon his initial appearance? Is it his ability to seduce, deceive, and terrorize his female victims? Tarantino plays on the predatory underpinnings of masculinity itself, as a social construct, when he invites us to revel in Mike’s murderous rampage before the end of Act I. Catharsis destabilizes our moral centers, forcing us to raise (if only for a moment) the self-reflective glass of introspection, and confront ourselves. It is exactly the destructiveness of masculine desire that we see embodied in Jungle Julia’s perversely sexualized dismemberment. However, by introducing Zoe and her gearhead friends in Act II, Tarantino subverts the conventions of the genre (with the exception of the introduction of the “cheerleader,” who is disposed of by her friends perhaps because she represents that from which these women are trying to escape) .

Stuntman Mike (courtesy of KPBS.com)

These females share a bond of friendship that is not circumscribed by masculine desire in the way their superficial, deceased predecessors are. The average male moviegoers claim they detest Zoe because they dislike her piercing, her accent, her “dykish” behavior and dress. They really detest her because she is superior to Stuntman Mike; her very name, which means “life” in the Greek, opposes that paternal Logos of the Stuntman, whose immortality depends on his extraordinary ability to control life by defying death. It is inevitable, however, that Stuntman Mike must die. And so Tarantino unmasks his rampant masculinity in the second Act, revealing it to be nothing more than a facade of homophobia and misogyny. As soon as Zoe and her gearheads use their sexuality as a weapon (they literally ram their vehicle “up his ass”), the Stuntman takes flight, the patrilineal order of the muscle-car disintegrates, and the girls reduce the Stuntman to a bloody pulp with their bare hands.

Zoe (courtesy of Gala.de)

Despite fanboys’ flabbergasted attempts to rearrange the plot, “Deathproof” ends with Stuntman Mike’s death, which is legitimated by the women’s triumph over misogyny.