Kill Bill Vol.1 (2003) Synopsis:
The first film in the two-part "Kill Bill" series, the second being Kill Bill Vol. 2. Uma Thurman is going to "Kill Bill," in Quentin Tarantino's latest film about a former assassin betrayed by her boss, Bill (Carradine). Four years after surviving a bullet in the head, the bride (Thurman) emerges from a coma and swears revenge on her former master and his deadly squad of international assassins, played by Lucy Liu, Daryl Hannah, Vivica A. Fox and Michael Madsen.
Kill Bill Vol.1 (2003) Movie Review:
Bill’s Overkill One for the Grist Mill
San Quentin n. 1. Prison in California
2. The patron saint of retro video store clerks and self-appointed hipsters imprisoned in the past.
Tricks are for kids. So is Kill Bill Vol. 1. It’s a jejune mess from supposed auteur extraordinaire, Quentin Tarantino. Labeled as his FOURTH, it’s his worst film by a long shot (even worse than his segment of “Four Rooms.)” This is the best he could produce in the 6 years since completing the highly enjoyable “Jackie Brown?” Was he shootin’ up with “Rush” Limbaugh when he conceived this tedium? Getting the coveted Jack-booted “R” rating for Grand Guignol blood bathing, he didn’t have the guts to let the sex get beyond mild innuendo. The main babe doesn’t even get to expose her two best assets. This is no more than pusillanimous pap for Samurai wanna be’s. Especially those with an insatiable thirst for monotonous Asian antics first put to film, seemingly centuries ago, in Hong Kong. How many times can you stand to watch another knock-off (er “homage”) of “Crouching Tiger, Eaten Roy Horn?” Swinging, swooping, swishing, swashbuckling starlets celebrating Grrrl power? Bill’s Angels and Mr. Blonde? How many video games, TV shows, and films must it take to sate this sophomoric appetite for mindless destruction? Isn’t there enough of that insanity in Iraq and Israel? Grow up, grasshopper!
Opening with a paean to the Shaw Scope production logo, followed by a ‘70’s porn title graphic “Feature Presentation,” and a Klingon proverb regarding revenge, we are shown an in-your-face close-up of a bloodied supine bride (Mrs. Ethan Hawke) shot in black & white, to the tune of Sonny Bono’s “Bang, Bang!.” Panting, she seems to be contemplating the razor’s edge between sadism, masochism, and a sado-masochist like the dotingly creepy cowboy-booted Bill (David Carradine). “The Bride’s” post backstory is told through subsequent b&w flashbacks showing a matrimonial rite gone wrong. Terribly wrong. We witness the family values approved “shotgun” wedding. We are shown a CSI-like evidential view of the bullet, from its ignition to impact in the skull of the pregnant intended, an immediate indication that this is no “Brideshead Revisited.” Instead of a wedding repast, we get a blood feast. We gaze upon the family photo album for a while, enjoying the nice “shots” of the whole damned reception. The only detail gone missing is the playing of Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone.” Later, we get to witness the special talents of the comatose harlot with the pulse of 69, “earning her keep” at ol’ hospital hell. Our visit includes a near fatal encounter with a whistling one-eyed teenage enema nurse aka Elle Driver/California Mountain Snake (Daryl Hannah). Despite the overwhelming odds in a facility with less security than a pre-9-11 Logan Airport, The Bride has a “miraculous” recovery at the insertion of a female mosquito probiscus and deftly bucks her orderly’s/pimp’s ministrations. Is this because canon law requires at least one miracle in order to bestow sainthood on a deserving paragon? Since the grains of sand are running out on the Polish Pontiff, and he is the all-time beatifier king, maybe the filmmaker was compelled to carpe diem. At any rate, the re-animation of The Bride is the starting point for this plodding tale of revenge. There will be no Shaw shanked redemption.
However, as ‘revenge is never a straight line,’ we are ahead of the flick’s pulpy fictional non-linear sequences. The script starts with “Chapter 1 (target/victim) # 2. Where’s Peter Greenaway when you need him. Residing in a cute little Pasadena craftsman home called “The Bells” and apparently not forewarned by Bill, Vernita (Copperhead) is surprised by the return of The Bride (Black Mamba). A WWF grade catfight breaks out interrupted by Mrs. Green’s 4 year-old daughter. Evidently, Samurai etiquette requires civility around children. Did all the snakes get preggers at the same time? After introductions, during which The Bride’s real name gets bleeped out by Samurai censors, the gals take it into the kitchen for a coffee chat. Unfortunately, street ‘tudes get the better of them and viper Vivica’s Foxy Brown drowns in an explosion of sugary kiddy cereal. Kaboom! The Pussy Wagon then peels back to the future in search of numero uno.
To properly setup this backstory, Mr. Tarantino inserts a nice little anime (ironically less cartoonish than the rest of the film and quite nice looking on the big screen), so Asian Dragon Angel aka O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu) can establish her credentials as a badass multicultural mutt. She has come a long way since she used to achieve the big “O” from having her knee joints jostled by Fish on Ally McBeal. Mr. T, apparently shackled to the ball and chain of compulsive redux, gives her a trite little cliché named Gogo Yubari to pal around with clad in (yawn) naughty schoolgirl attire. Cubby Broccoli, eat out your dead heart. Following the lead of GAT politicians, globalizing Bill provides the capital for her godfatherless organization. Banzai!
Meanwhile, in Okinawa, we are served a cold platter of sushi sans tea, and a Mr. Miyagi moment to give an ol’ genre icon (Sonny Chiba) a chance to mentor the completely rehabilitated near-mom. After some “witty” multi-lingual banter, the chef and The Bride come to an agreement. Together, the maiden of revenge and the mentor agree on a one-month plan, to provide adequate practice time for her as well as enough time for the creation of the sword-of-the-gods by Sonny Sword Master. Upon completion and a Zen-like ritual, The Bride is ready for the big confrontation. Read posted informative chapter title and proceed to next adventure. Sssssslither…
See the jet fly across the water and land in Japan. See The Bride ride an ensemble-matching motorcycle, including appropriate Nike product placement. Quentin Crisp would be impressed. See Reservoir Seoul Food make a big entrance into the House of Blue Leaves. Rock to the beat of the 5.6.7.8.’s featuring beehive ‘do’s like the B-52’s (the Gay B-29’s would be too crass considering the location). Wince as femme Fatale, Ishii’s right arm loses her left in a Python moment. See customers and harridan leave House of Blues. See Kato look-alike crew in their cute masks. See crew attack. Wait for Seller’s Clouseau to yell, “Not now Cato, you idiot!” See Gogo go bye-bye. Picture Ishii (Cottonmouth) as Al Pacino at the top of the stairs utter, “say hello to my little yellow friends!” Gasp as 88 Yakuzas in black & white attire storm the palace. See The Bride turn them into sashimi. So solly cholly, no wasabi. Hai! Witness more hordes with swords than brandished by Sophocle’s Ajax. See piles of blood-spurting limbs spray a sea of red over the dead, leaving more one-armed noisemakers than an untaxed Indian casino full of slot machines and almost more dead limbs than a Gale Norton protected ancient forest. No arigato. See virgin white snow violated by vexed vixens vying for victory. See O-Ren get scalped Kemosabe. Hai!
See the plane depart into red skies. The End (of volume 1)? No way, San Jose! We must watch The Bride carefully write “the list” in bold 2 ink deliberations, and listen to whimpering admissions by femme Fatale (Julie Dreyfus – not Seinfeld’s ex) about the whole “affair” to Mr. Bill. Chopped off in mid-conversation, there is no “to be continued,” or built-in previews, or even a pregnant pause. Only innuendo implying a partially aborted birth. This off-putting, chop-sockey hack job doesn’t even set up “Volume 2,” where the opening song will most likely be “Don’t Mess With Bill” by the Marvelettes. Instead of completing this “epic,” the legendary director takes a cue from other current epics, like “Lord of the Rings” and “The Matrix,” as well as from fellow producers (the Weinstein blobs) to serialize in an attempt to satisfy their yen for bucks. So, after an “intermission” of a few months, cultists, who were left under the dangling sword of Damocles, can wait until next year to line up to pay again for the exciting conclusion. Or not.
The cinematography (Robert Richardson) is top notch, art direction superb, and choreography lyrical. The songs are the usual Tarantino eclectic blend of puns and catchy classics. The original music (RZA), which borrows a bit from “Irreversible’s” menacing techno tunality and Tomita’s soaring sonics, works reasonably well. Foley is sharp, and makes effective use of surround sound. Despite all of this dedicated craftsmanship, the film as a (partial) whole, is basically a fatuous exercise in over-indulgence. Style once again triumphs over substance. With the mélange of languages, s/dubtitles, and lack of intelligent dialog, this “action” half-film will make a pile of undeserved lucre internationally if not domestically. While Clint Eastwood has long ago passed on the pasta to make films that resonate, it’s a shame that a man with the potential of Mr. Tarantino chooses to chew the chow mein with this derivative dreck. Silly rabbit.
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Kill Bill Vol.1 (2003) review written by: TR Black
12th October, 2008 
