KILL BILL, VOL. 2 (Quentin Tarantino, 2004) 69

Reviewed: April 16th, 2004

Sure, there's much to appreciate (particularly Budd Sidewinder, the battered beauty of David Wasco's production design and, of course, David Carradine), but this is still the greatest cinematic disappointment of my lifetime. I'm shocked so many critics prefer Volume 2 to Volume 1, since the second verse is essentially the same as the first, except now it's sung in a laborious, almost dishonest key. Volume 1's sustained burst of pure, unapologetic passion (style as substance) has been diluted with overblown speeches and aggressive silliness (always a fine line in Tarantino films, but e.g. the terrible Pai Mei chapter, The Bride absurdly rising from the left-for-dead, Michael Parks's incomprehensible pimp, Uma's post-pregnancy-test showdown and the exploding heart, all cross over to the dark side) with half of Volume 2's scenes dragging on too long and its excessive padding replacing Volume 1's unfailing escalation: much of what was novel six months ago has been made tiresome (e.g. The Bride v. Elle Driver is nothing more than a pale redux of The Bride v. Vernita Green).

Many people (myself included) were eagerly awaiting Volume 1's "emotional payoff", i.e. a second volume that might re-contexualize the first and endow the inherently base ferocity of revenge with a little more emotional depth. After sitting through Volume 2, my suspicion that Tarantino didn't actually need to justify Volume 1 has been confirmed. Volume 2 proves that intimating motivation is preferable to mishandling its nuances. Unlike Tarantino, I'm less amused by his "cool" monologue games than I am interested in seeing him explore the intricacies of The Bride and Bill's potentially complex relationship. Though Volume 2's superlative opening scene (easily the best in the film), featuring Uma and Carradine on the Church porch, gives a taste of what might have been, the Kill Bill saga is not sufficient as a (broken) love story because its final chapter -- which should build towards a tangled mass of painful realizations and welcome catharsis -- instead loops around in nearly pointless circles, avoiding the meaningful motherhood and fatherhood issues at its core until it's finally put out of its misery and negated by an obligatory, half-assed anti-climax (yes, anti-climaxes can be effective, but not if they are already proceeded by twenty minutes of continuously dull anti-climax so that they effectively become anti-anti-anti-anti climaxes; Tarantino has said the cheapo resolution was dreamt up last-minute to curb an out-of-control budget -- frankly, it shows). For all his innumerable virtues, Volume 2 presents Tarantino as a writer still unwilling to delve very deep into the staggering implications of betrayal; his stunted worldview marks death as a suitable alternative to substantive exploration. Granted, sometimes mere death is sufficient (e.g. Mr. White killing Mr. Orange is a perversely poetic, and perfectly taciturn close), but Kill Bill, by stretching itself across two films, demanded more than Tarantino ultimately delivered.

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