I almost feel bad for Robert Rodriguez, insofar as he has the misfortune to make a generally entertaining feature only to have it eclipsed by some sublime genre work by Quentin Tarantino.

An intriguing package of faux trailers and senseless violence. Rarely is there a film that is so unquestionably enjoyable. Might give the '70s grind house flicks a good name.

The numbness of sitting through nearly two hours of dreck isn't all that kills the momentum going in to Death Proof.

Designed for those who want to rock on schlock.

A long, blood-splattered stunt of a movie, Grindhouse, may be something only critics and film nerds can love.

What amazed me however, was the unexpected feeling of feminine empowerment.

What we're mainly getting is two big directors with expensive movies pretending they're niche directors with low funding. It's an act, but an enthralling one.

A unapologetically entertaining double feature that, despite its drawn out runtime and clunky moments, has an inventive take on an old and often cringe-worthy genre

Raging at you harder than a televangelist on an overdose of Viagra, Grindhouse pulverizes the audience with a bombardment of hyper-violence, buxom babes, gnarly zombies, and enough exploitation to fill two movies.

Grindhouse is more fun than an army of toxic zombies, or a shapely severed leg hitting the highway with a thump.