After taking my boy to Django Unchained, we started a concerted effort to watch the Tarantino catalogue. When he asked about the Kill Bills, I told him they were films made primarily for children, but were so violent, if cartoonishly so, that children probably shouldn’t be allowed to watch them. Of course, Tarantino is a visionary, having anticipated an audience of children of a wider breadth than I could have imagined, scads of 24 to 36 year old slacker geeks, still living in Mom’s basement, deathly terrified of footballs and supervisors and real women, banking retirement on mint condition comic books, their only meaningful relationships having been 2 to 3 minute internet trysts with the Jenna Jamesons cranked out of the San Fernando Valley with increasingly worrisome regularity.
This is their crack:
Volume 1 is stylish, meticulous, occasionally funny and inventive but a mostly tiresome abcess of a picture. As if any enjoyment derived from the first picture required penance, Volume 2 is that contrition.