Revisiting Tarantino: What the Fuck Were We Thinking?

Not very long ago I ranted about the move Inglorious Bastards to any and all willing to tread these waters. I disliked the film for many reasons, the biggest being that it was dull. Why was it dull? Because of the words words words. The movie never shut the fuck up long enough to be as interesting as everyone says it is. And it is not. Not at all. I never slept better than I did when sitting in the theater that night a few months back. Imagine a dog attending an opera. That was my interest level.

That being said, I wasn’t thrilled about watching Death Proof, the half of Grindhouse made by Tarantino. But watch it I did (not counting the bit that was fast forwarded by Cassandra, bless her heart). And yeah: hate it I did.

Again we have evidence of exactly how egotistical Tarantino is. Why, oh why, did anyone ever tell that smug fuck that he has a gift for dialogue? That tiny bit of praise mushroomed into some of the most lurchingly paced, hip to the point of nausea chatter ever stuffed into celluloid.

I cannot imagine watching Reservoir Dogs again, simply because I fear that doing so would destroy the fond memories I have of that film and a time when everything was possible.