Robert Rodriguez must thank his lucky stars for the day when his mate Tarantino asked him along for the
Grindhouse ride. That legitimised 1970s schlock B-movies by adding a post-modern nudge and wink. But it was also clear that it was a pant-wetting homage to the shit of the era from boys who'd never grow up, and while Tarantino's bag contains more omnivorous cinematic class to make his wet dreams palatable, as with
Inglourious Basterds, for Rodriguez it's just given another lease of life beyond his kids adventure films, returning to the
Mariachi bang-bang. Danny Trejo is thus finally given a leading role as the titular hero, and various big names all the way up to De Niro come along in the belief that it's all just a knowing laugh, after all.
Except that it's not particularly witty, and going OTT with the cliches doesn't automatically equate to neutralising the reactionary content. And a deeply reactionary film it is too, with cement-bag-faced Trejo somehow bedding all available women while lopping off arms and heads in a constipated fury. That those arms and legs happen this time to belong to anti-immigrant rednecks and corrupt Texan politicians hardly matters.
4/10
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