Three and a half years later, as the next Winter Sports Competition (or whatever Olympics-style name they gave it) approaches, Jimmy's stalker (Nick Swardson) informs him that the rules dictate that he can compete - just not in his former category. In "Blades of Glory," Ferrell plays Chazz Michael Michaels, a macho pig of a figure skater (and there's a joke that's stretched out over the course of the 93-minute movie) who is banned from the sport after a public fracas with competitor Jimmy MacElroy (Jon Heder), who is far from manly. Some people think he plays the same character all the time, but hell, so did Bob Hope, so does Woody Allen, so do many actors who perfect a screen persona. My suggestion: Save a few bucks and catch a matinee (if you're into bloody spoofs). I guess one cannot underestimate the allure of figure-skating comedians. I'm surprised this one didn't rocket to the top of the box office this weekend. Used sparingly, they have an effect used incessantly, they bore. What I wish he would do, however, is get over his adolescent fixation with the f- and n-words. To his credit, Tarantino films the car chases without CGI - what you see is actually happening on film. Bell, a real-life stunt woman who here plays a stunt woman, lends a breath-taking realism to her role, especially when things get nasty on the road - events that turn out looking a lot like Russ Meyer's "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!"a cult film that Tarantino clearly loves. Rosario Dawson, Tracie Thoms, Zoe Bell, and Mary Elizabeth Winstead star as women from a film shoot whose quest to test drive a classic muscle car leads to a run-in with Stuntman Mike. The second flick is "Death Proof," with Kurt Russell as a sicko who kills women with his car. The directors clearly had a blast making these things.
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All are laugh-out-loud funny and are chock full of cameos, my favorite being "Thanksgiving," a spoof on those holiday-themed slasher films. Three more fake trailers lie between the features, these being "Thanksgiving" by Eli Roth ("Hostel"), "Don't Scream" by Edgar Wright ("Shaun of the Dead"), and "Werewolf Women of the SS" by Rob Zombie ("The Devil's Rejects"). The highlight has to be McGowan having her zombie-eaten leg replaced with a machine gun, which she blazes with gravity-defying dexterity. There are buckets of blood spilled, to be sure, but the buckets are spilled with such zest and joie de vivre that one cannot help see the sick humor in the splattering. Nonetheless, "Grindhouse" is three hours and 10 minutes of great fun (be sure to visit the restroom before taking your seat). I wish he hadn't it would have fit better with the Rodriguez film. I fear Tarantino valued his contribution so highly that he dared not violate it by intentionally damaging the print. I say "for the most part," because Quentin Tarantino's share, "Death Proof," is a fairly clean print, whereas Robert Rodriguez's "Planet Terror" is pitted, scratched, and poppy, with the focus sometimes going in and out, and featuring an "accidental" freeze frame that "burns" the film. Fashioned after the sleazy exploitation flicks of the '70s, "Grindhouse" is an energetic and gleefully violent double feature that, for the most part, looks as though it could have been discovered in someone's attic after moldering for 30 years.
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