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Versione 2
Rating:
Could you review your own mother? One might say no, but perhaps it can be done. And what does this have to do with Kill Bill? Everything. It has everything to do with it because this film is somewhat the womb that birthed my passion for cinema. I didn't just watch and rewatch it, I dissected it, opened it up like a still warm body, drooling over every detail, discovering a fierce way of filmmaking I was previously unaware of. Kill Bill is a part of me, a slice of my aesthetic vision, meticulously dissected with a Hattori Hanzō sword.
But after fifteen years, it's possible to adopt a further critical view. Tarantino from 2003, seen from the pinnacle of 2019, has a very different flavor. It has a sprightly lightness I didn't recall. It's all choreography, an aesthetic game that comes before the story, before the protagonist, before the moral contents of the story (which are there, well hidden but compelling). A slaughter carried out light-heartedly on cheerful, at times almost nonsensical music, that nullifies the drama in certain phases. The drama is almost parodied (in volume one), it seems like a pretext to unleash and slaughter. (The text is full of spoilers).
Cinema for Cinema
Yesterday, watching it again on Netflix with my uncle (wide eyes), I was amazed by something. During the chapter The Origin of O-Ren, I vividly remembered the melancholic music accompanying the animated sequences when boss Matsumoto has her parents killed. In my head, the music started before it did in the film. It's a detail, and you could find countless other examples (the siren when encountering arch-nemeses, the changes in color and photography), but it indicates how the style here is literally unforgettable. Every single note, the eye of little O-Ren, the splashes of blood, everything remains indelibly etched in memory. This isn’t about history and war, or racism; there’s no politics. It’s cinema that feeds itself, gluttonous, but it hasn’t yet reached the conceptual complexities of Once Upon a Time... Cinema for cinema, at its best. Indeed, before the post-postmodern critique (the latest film), there needed to be a showcase of the postmodern material itself. Here it is, in its arrogance, which, however, doesn't exclude various dialectical cues.
Portraits
A work that, as always happens with Quintino, avoids tackling the issue head-on. And if here the focus is Beatrix’s revenge (name censored until midway through the second film, let's wonder why...) against Bill, for the entire first volume, the motive isn’t precisely clear. The relationship between the two isn’t even clearly defined. Yet, there’s no time to ask. There’s no time because this is a film of digressions, lateral portraits, branches that give but also deny. They say something about the deadly viper assassination squad, but their strength lies in not saying everything, always leaving a little craving. Each portrait is a little masterpiece. A little volume of cinema grammar.
Vernita Green has settled, started a family. Her daughter is as old as Beatrix’s coma. As if that reckless act changed her, giving her the impetus to create a new life (on which the past returns vengefully, to rename her in blood). Budd is mistreated by his boss like a sewer rat, the coworker asks if he can take care of the bathroom filled with water and shit. He’s a small, pragmatic man who almost attacks his brother’s pride to demystify his world, to take emphasis away from his epic. “For that sword, they offered me 250 dollars.” Elle is the degenerate double of Beatrix, who sadistically tells of poisoning Pai Mei’s fish heads. The master who is the litmus test of the inherent morality in his disciples, or the lack thereof.
(It’s Beatrix’s morality that opens the door to the secret technique, Pai Mei delights in her submission to authority, even when imposing almost inhumane rules. And it’s the secret technique that will allow her to win over Bill, another degenerate pupil).
Then there's O-Ren. A normal digression is not enough for her; a change of language is needed. And then, the stroke of genius. In the midst of the Bride’s adventures, with great syncretic taste, a film within the film begins, an animated short explaining the deep, inhuman hate O-Ren harbors since childhood. Each portrait is an essential piece in a film that continuously postpones the emotional core of its story. O-Ren is almost a protagonist, as long as the Bride remains shrouded in mystery.
A-morality
How can one bestow the mantle of morality on a protagonist who slices through hundreds of enemies, guilty only of standing between her and her objectives on the death list five? But Quintino explains it to us! A trick he would also use in Django and Bastards. There’s the violence not morally characterized, which is a joyful dance, a choreography (the Crazy 88s, a bloodbath party). And there’s the reckless violence, the kind that makes your guts wrench. Elle poisoning Pai Mei, Bill visiting the Two Pines. Our heroine moves in a limbo that acts as a safe-conduct. She’s a killer, but never sadistic, her gaze unaccomplished. She was born a Superman, she can't do anything about it. She even spares a little one, spanking him for soiling himself with the Yakuza. “Back to your mommy!”
The friction between homicidal rage and moral rules ignites in front of children. No one wants to show blades to the little ones: thus, when Nikki comes home from school, her mother and Beatrix stop, pretending (poorly) that everything is fine. All the more reason the showdown with Bill must be delayed because B.B. needs to have dinner and watch cartoons. They are magnificent paradoxes, identifying a spark of humanity even in ruthless killers. If we want to make distinctions, the difference between good killers and bad killers lies precisely in respecting certain indispensable rules, like respecting children, keeping one's word, honoring authority.
It all starts here. For Beatrix, being a mother and being a killer are irreconcilable matters. For Bill, no. For Beatrix, the authority of Master Pai Mei is indisputable, for Elle, no. Again for Beatrix, a word given holds value, for Vernita Green and Bill, no. They attack her treacherously, and she, at that point, can only respond.
Narrative Contortions
I won’t dwell on what has already been extensively pointed out, on the homages to certain cinema, etc. I'm interested in something else, the style and cadence of the narration, which are more so in this case bent to the aesthetic and emotional yield.
It starts with Chapter 1: 2, and that alone should give pause. But this time the twist goes far beyond the (apparent) paradoxes of Pulp Fiction. The split into two volumes, albeit imposed, is exploited by Quintino to emotionally segment the material. Thus, we have a muscular chapter, in which we ignore the motives and know almost nothing about the protagonist, and a painful one, made of tough choices, losses that hurt, harshness and burials, deceptions, snakes, betrayals, and finally the pure maternal feeling that nullifies everything (some criticize the violence against women in QT’s movies, but have they ever seen Kill Bill?).
The narrative twist is enormous, in essence, time is pulverized. By the end of the first chapter, we know much more about the villain than the heroine. O-Ren almost seems more likable than the American doll. She wears Bruce Lee’s suit, almost de-humanized in her being death's angel (and a death angel does not sin, she does what she must). Then the second chapter opens, and we no longer see her in a yellow suit. We see her in sandals, with a blue dress, with earrings. Now we can understand a little better her story, forget about the heaps of corpses and finally even discover her name. It’s like shaking hands with her and getting acquainted, as she’s no longer an angel of death but a loving mother.
The Killer in Parentheses
In the first, the tension for rebirth and affirmation is central (it’s a journey of formation from scratch, from paralysis to acrobatics, acquiring knowledge, means, and a specially forged sword). The second reinterprets the story from scratch. It truly explains it after only sketching it. We know for sure that Beatrix will reach Bill (she tells us, breaking the fourth wall, at the beginning), and we also know that she will win because it’s obvious. So, it makes no sense to focus on that. Then to captivate us QT digs back, softening the vengeful arc, putting it in parentheses. It's more interesting to understand why it came to this point than the point itself. Hence the massacre at the Two Pines, Pai Mei’s teachings, the antithetical double with Elle, Bill’s portrait in absentia, the obscenely sucked thumb. The clashes are toned down because Beatrix is now different. She becomes a true and positive character, she can’t be a killer like in volume one. The violence returns but from the opposite side: now it's an extreme choice of bad options, because we’re in another film, in another genre.
Budd is not killed by her, Elle doesn’t kill her at all. And Bill... when we reach the end, it's not that important to emphasize the revenge. It is important, however, to emphasize the moral contradiction. Bill is faithful to his superhero nature and raises his daughter with awareness of everyday evil. Beatrix is faithful to her womanhood and doesn't want to raise her daughter without morality. But she’s also faithful to her revenge, which comes before the (theoretical) need to spare her daughter’s father. She’s a lioness; for her cub, she would stop at nothing and no one. Deep down, however, by perpetuating her revenge at her own family’s expense, Beatrix only confirms Bill’s narrative: she is a killer. And a loving mother, but one who can occasionally "be a real bitch."
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