We've heard plenty about Grindhouse at this point—the gore, the sleaze, the over-the-top deliberately ghoulish schlock. And God knows the new Tarantino/Rodriguez B-movie tribute doesn't disappoint, providing three hours and eleven minutes of spurting blood, melting skin, noxious zombies, naked breasts, crunching bones, ass close-ups, bouncing cheerleaders, and abscess-ridden testicles. It sounds like any sexually frustrated male's dream: Two feature films and four faux-trailers worth of nubile girls having their limbs ripped off, crotches impaled, hands stabbed with needles, brains eaten by zombies, and skulls cleaved in half. So when I went Tuesday night to see it with my boyfriend (who, okay, works for the Weinsteins), why did I come out of the theater feeling like I'd seen a remake of Thelma & Louise?

Tarantino and Rodriguez have made much of the fact that the movies are there to be fun rather than good, over-the-top resurrections of pulpy '70s exploitation flicks packed tight with extreme (seriously, it's extreme) gore and heaping T&A. But what hasn't been played up is the fact that both films center around women, not just as decorations but pivotal characters who get in touch with their inner action star and take control, ultimately by kicking (or shooting, or maiming) some serious ass. Particularly Tarantino, always a master of spinning cultural undertones into pulpy narrative, seems to play with the idea that, if you mess with chicks, you're gonna get hurt.

The gore flies so fast in Planet Terror (Robert Rodriguez's part one of the double feature) that by the time lead Rose McGowan gets her leg ripped off, you're so inured to snapping sinews and spewing plasma that it's barely a blip on the radar. For all its suggestion of female helplessness, however, the lost limb doesn't bother Rose all that much; when her killing-machine- masquerading-as-truck-driver boyfriend Freddy Rodriguez fixes her up with the iconic machine gun leg, she wastes no time blasting through the walls of a zombie-laden military compound to shepherd the remaining survivors off to safety in Mexico (an apparent Zombie Free Zone).

While Tarantino is the film's headliner, his feature ends up being the wild card. The soaring testosterone levels after Planet Terror's constant action may have a tough time when faced with ten minutes of watching women (albeit hot women) chat about sex and do their nails. While dogged Quentin fans should appreciate details like the diner scene, a perfect homage to Reservoir Dogs, Death Proof is three parts girltalk for every one part hardcore action. Still, if you can make it to the end, the last ten minutes alone are worth the price of admission. Especially for anyone with breasts.—Melissa Lafsky

LINKS
• Quentin and Robert's totally authentic, retro, B-movie website—just like in the '70s!
• Cheat sheet for exploitation movie noobs