Killing Bill
A change is as good as a rest. He walked around Deadwood with an assassination squad. He shook off his realist mantle for a preferred seat and two black Aces. Rambling situationalism and interchangeable limbs must be gratified by hacking and bragging. Heads up, the director beds down a baroque bloodbath. Less than a bad guy, he sticks Asian Cinema in a cemetery. He’s Tokyo restaurant guilty of camerawork and whatever takes place on wedding days. Wild Bill enters, screens the dailies of his overkill project, and gambles with his back to the door. A fatal lingering brings body counts in two parts to South Dakota — and there are amputations enough for everyone. But cartoon violence is plain rude in the Kurosawa saloon. Thus, poker in the traditional sense becomes the back story of a burial plot. Deal with it, Jack. Are you constructively annoyed by mish-mash narrative and rockabilly revenge? Let’s slice opera into pulp. Take that! The local newspaper is awash with second trials of false brothers and unchecked brides. Dearest Uma. Strip off the red stuff. A funky hanging unfolds in Yankton — a screen world of cranked up whistle stops. Better to swim with swords than lie under tombstones. Hickok learned one thing from this kooky anime. Old Quent is death.
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