My name is Ron
It is, it really is
Took a couple hours off this afternoon to pop down to the Ritzy to see ââ'¬Å"The fourth Quentin Tarantino filmââ'¬Â. And what a two hours. It's loud, lurid and utterly ludicrous, overcooked almost to the point of being unpalatable, and probably very bad indeed for impressionable people. But sometimes, just sometimes, that's how I like my films, and this one delivers by the slab load. Limbs fly with graceful abandon. Arterial blood sprays the screen in perfect splashing arcs. Uma Thurman sweats a lot. Yum. Criticisms have been made that it lacks characters and plot, which is totally missing the point. It's like complaining that Woody Allen's latest doesn't have enough car chases. This isn't a movie about real people or real life, it's a movie about movies, about cinematic conventions and archetypes. It's a movie about the promise, the power and the threat of cinema. It's a fantastically anarchic, stylish and empty confection, devoid of any meaning beyond what's there on the screen. Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction don't stand up to repeated viewing, and neither will this. The two hours spent in the cinema is all that matters, and in this age of marketing-driven films, I can't think of a higher recommendation than that.