Grindhouse

After watching the double-feature Grindhouse and stepping out to the road of razzmatazz known as 42nd Street in Midtown Manhattan, I felt wholly entertained; accomplished, even. I had just experienced a movie in a way the sock-hop generation would tally up a night at the drive-in: As an experience, a night's worth of entertainment without leaving the comfort of my seat.

A nod to the grindhouse cinema explosion of the '70s and '80s, where double-bill B-movies where churned out faster than hot and sticky popcorn oil, Grindhouse is more than a winking satire, more than a cutesy homage, more than a weepy labor-of-love. Somehow, this colossal piece of garbage-cinema is poised to reinvigorate The Action Flick, The Dark Comedy and The Gruesome Horror all on its own, "look ma, no hands!" style. Few creative visions have come to fruition the way this Robert Rodriguez/Quentin Tarantino production has.

If you don't know, now you know: Grindhouse is four mock-trailers, three hours and two movies for the price of one movie ticket. Within the integrated entity is a psycho doctor, enraged Mexican, Pilgrim-aping masochist, shotgun-toting priest, katana-tongued DJ, dismembered go-go dancer/stand-up comedienne, belt-strap clutching daredevil and Bruce Willis. Don't worry if you think I've spoiled some of the surprises; there are a few million more. The big surprise and payoff is not that these strange characters actually exist, but rather when and how they appear on the screen. Blink once and miss a symphony of limbs explode into gruesome fireworks.