Unpopular Opinion: Tasteless Cinema “Death Proof” is a Masterpiece in Disguise

“If you truly love cinema with all your heart and with enough passion, you can’t help but make a good movie.” – said once Mr. Quentin Tarantino and it’s also what I say to myself about goode writing


“Thunderbolt” – no, scratch that – “Death Proof” – The Best of Tasteless Cinema!

A still frame from the film “Death Proof” by Quentin Tarantino

There it goes.

The burger among the caviar dishes.

The jukebox among the Morricone soundtracks.

The flip-flop among the black tux filmography.

The trashy one among cult cinema.

So, this is what “Death Proof” is about: Former stuntman “Stuntman Mike” (Kurt Russell) chases down these young women trying to kill them, seeking the ecstasy of their violent death.

1. Could this movie teach you anything spiritual?

You may find that you like your cinema made by a moving image enthusiast (read: fanatic), who worships the very ground cinema walks on and thinks the world of the garbage sold in theaters in the ’70s when everyone else preferred watching goode cinema on TV.
Now, that is love.

So, in his crafty project, Tarantino creates a piece of poetry worthy of respect out of the trashy sub-genre of horror movies, and it impeccably manages to:

a) color the characters one coating at a time as if this were some fine art (they happen to be a bunch of toons – yet as well-rounded as real folks);

b) feature some neat Tarantino dialogue (better than the one in “Reservoir Dogs”); and

c) be a comedy-gold inside joke intended for his fans and his fans alone.

2. What’s this movie’s take on reality?

Tarantino’s reality is further away from real reality than that of George Lucas, and yet somehow more real than real reality.

Could the events of the movie ever take place? Yes, they can.

Is it likely that they would occur in this inconsequentially convenient way? Again, yes.
You never know, life is full of surprises.

3. Are you allowed to annoy friends with how goode the movie is?

Fear not, go on and spread the love.

“Death Proof” is Tarantino! And if they say, “he said it himself, this was his worst movie ” in that smarty-pants way they got, you have to know it in your heart that he must have been deluded.

Behold the meta-cinema and true showmanship!

Tropes you have never seen used in this way, but go the extra mile to set out the era and subculture this movie pays tribute to:

a) damaged film of the poorly-made, overused B-movie (jump-cuts, damaged audio, the wrong movie title? – really, he went that far?);

b) among other parody scenes there is a priceless one of police cracking the case;

c) all music is hand-picked by Mr. Tarantino and almost exclusively a jukebox playlist;
Hang up that chick habit, daddy-o!

A still frame from the film “Death Proof” by Quentin Tarantino

d) looks like someone rolled up their sleeves, put their thinking cap on, put themselves in the characters’ shoes, and went ahead and elevated the costume design up to Marie-Antoinette hights of level;

Yet another still frame from the film “Death Proof” by Quentin Tarantino

Now, imagine all of this backed up by the now-and-again feet footage, red-herring dialogue, and a real-life adrenaline car chaise – but put together in this pitch-perfect “arthouse gem of tasteless exploitation cinema” kinda way, in case you’re geeky enough this oxymoron makes any sense to you.

Yeah, “Death Proof” is a burger, the perfect burger that will inspire some chuckles, that is.

Johnny Boogieman

About Johnny Boogieman (né Johnathan Boogiemanovich Goode) is an American comedy reviewer and a self-proclaimed cinema connoisseur, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. … Johnny grew up on a farm in Louisiana, as the only child of a Louisiana-based field worker, dressmaker, dog hairstylist, dog collar jewelry designer, dog walker for the elderly (dogs and owners), disabled and elderly dog walking aids creator-in-attempt, and homemaker, Dutch single mother. As large a clientele as dogs were for the barely-gasping-for-air family business, they were the proud owners of a single tabby cat alone, a streetwise and self-dependent hunter known by either of the street names Stringer Bell and El Capo (sometimes referred to as El Cato). … Having been amazed by the crazy wild early readings of Jules Verne, Johnny’s school days were spent dreaming he’d someday make for a good storyteller. Hence, as early as fourth grade, eager to prove himself to the world, he went for it and constructed a well-balanced heartbeat-skipping thrilling essay, pointing out to some well-reasoned critique of society and solid character arcs, committing to his talents to the fullest and diving right into that pool of majestic phrasing and complexity of thought, confident he’d soon get bejeweled with a spotless A and a pretty clap by the teacher, with gradually having the whole class join in looking up to him as he emerges from his seat to receive his essay evaluation. When results day came, though, little Johnny not only got a D, but he was mocked by the teacher and class for the gullible overexposure of his fragile overambitious mutating childish writing skills of questionable taste and poor poor quality. It was the “you’re tearing me apart, Lisa” equivalent of a child’s essay. He was rather massacred. He never got that brave ever again. … Anyway, Johnny mainly spent his summers field-working on a sunflower field with his uncle Berry under the widespread wings of the storks and the chesty white doves and clever black crows who all flew right under the neighbor’s umbrella caps patio ceiling installation thingy as soon as the first raindrop was godshed over the one-eyed monsters battalion that the sunflower sea was to Johnny. It drove the unwilling bird host nuts, and he’d storm right out yelling and cursing at the birds, “we’re going, we’re going” they went, and flew a semi-circle over the umbrella caps as to fool him and came right back the other way around pretending to be some fresh arrivals of clueless law-abiding American birds not yet acquainted with the police system of the patio. The guy wouldn’t take it out as it took ages to plant and he and his wife thought it made them look like fancy DIY people who had some ideas worthy of admiration. Oh, the bird manure, though, oh the bird manure. “Work your time, boy” – staring Johnny’s uncle frowned, his eye twinkled. … Cinema was to Johnny what he made plans for, what he made time for, what he looked up to all his life, and as he became a young adult, what he fancied himself to have a special talent to understand. It was the sort of a sixth sense, an intuition, a gut sense. He was the squad movie buff and a film whisperer. “No”, it whispered, “Fight Club ain’t no bueno. Mark my words and don’t ask why ‘cos you ain’t schooled enough to know why, boy.” He tried, though, he debated and disputed over a glass of scotch-on-the-rocks and under the jibe of a saxophone jazz, but it was as fruitless and dull as the poetry he wrote - unclean, uneven, and too abstract - as if he hadn’t found a voice to speak in yet. He did his part for years to come, reading as all writers ought to, writing and not publishing until he found out what he had to say with the peculiar piece of work. As for cinema, it happened one evening as he discussed legs-up-a-recliner their plans for the future with his lover-cum-best friend in their rented one-bedroom living space in New Jersey, that his lover casually contributed: “And then I thought we could start a film blog and you could do the content writing” – words that sunflower field Johnny with his gangster cat and his dewy eyes staring at the rainy-day con birds thought he’d never hear.

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