A cross between mud wrestling and figure skating

Rating: 3/10 (18 December 2004)

It's certainly arousing to see a woman in a skintight motorsuit get smeared in sweat and blood and guts for hours on end and Tarantino certainly revels in the humiliation of his muse.
The camera dwells with relish on her bruised and bloodied face as she pleads with Bill to spare her life, before she gets shot in the head. We share an intimate appraisal of Uma's potential as a comatose sex object. We partake in every painful fumble when Uma, her legs paralyzed and her nightgown drenched in blood, drags herself to safety.
And it goes on and on and on: she gets buried alive, beats her fists into a bloody pulp trying to escape, then, covered in dirt, staggers across the road: a horrible mess of a woman, a mindless zombie. Funny, to be sure. But also something else.
All throughout both films she gets shot, stabbed, slashed and thrown across rooms with such remarkable gusto, and she slams into walls and furniture with such satisfying thuds, that you start to wonder how the hell you're supposed to maintain an attitude of ironic detachment and cool appreciation of Tarantino's kitschy aesthetic.
Underneath the stunning visuals, the beautiful choreography, and clever references, is the rousing lure of sadism and brutality. If only Tarantino would be honest about it, instead of coming up with a paper-thin "strong woman" motif to justify his indulgence.
"Kill Bill" is thrilling and pretty, but also dishonest and demeaning.