LunarPoise

Death Proof is a homage to 70s movies. It contains a treasure trove of explicit and hidden references to the pop culture of the director's childhood. It is an exercise in stylistic excess. What it is not, however, is entertaining and engaging.

The lighting is intentionally poor, and the colors are washed out. The actors overact egregiously. The added visual effect of a worn-out film print adds nothing to the viewers' aesthetic pleasure. The trash talk of the women not only sounds like men, it sounds like one man in particular. Like a lot of Tarantino characters post Pulp Fiction, there is no differentiation in characterization through dialogue. These tedious longueurs are simply infantile; pure cringe.

The action sequence with two cars at the end is entertaining, but the wait to get there is interminable. In sum, ill-advised from conception, Death Proof is dull, pointless and self-indulgent.

The poet has writers' block and his frustration permeates the house. His much younger wife is renovating their home and trying to accommodate her husband's moods. They live miles from anywhere, and yet an unexpected guest shows up. His boorish attempt to smoke in their home is the first of many provocations.

That is about as much rational description of the narrative that you can apply to this film. The Young Wife senses a heartbeat pulsing in the walls of the house. Time jumps and jars. There is new life, and death. Murder even. Thematic elements are front and centre. What happens when selfless devotion encounters insatiable ego? When does the private self end and the public self start? Can the hordes be kept from the door (quite literal hordes, in this case).

The performances are superb. The camera keeps the two leads in almost constant close up, allowing us glimpses past and beyond them that show chaos and horror. What does it all mean? I have no idea. But it is a conversation I look forward to having with fellow audience members, and that is a rare gift.