violence of the action allows ‘i’arantinornand director Tony Scott to be as intelligentrnas they please without having tornworry about losing their audience. Therntypical moviegoer is not appreciablyrnsmarter than Clarence and has an attentionrnspan that can be measured inrnbreaths. For any moviemaker to succeed,rnhe must contrive a way of satisfyingrnthe humanoids while offering somethingrnelse to those with IQs in three digits. InrnReservoir Dogs and here in I’rue Romance,rnTarantino has figured out a wayrnof doing elegant genre pieces, seriousrnconsiderations of the way things happenrnin the world, with enough mayhem andrnbloodshed to satisfy even the crudest ofrnmoviegoers. That the smarter patronsrncan see what he’s doing only adds torntheir appreciation of the wit of the exercise.rnAs even Denby noted, a conspiratorialrnfeeling arises between the figures onrnscreen and the knowing observers.rnThere are a number of truly extraordinary,rnnearly campy performances thatrninvolve these winks and waves, includingrnan amazing bit by Christopher Walkenrnas a Mafioso and Dennis Hopper as hisrnvictim. Walken demonstrates that arnsmile and chuckle can be every bit asrnmenacing as a frown or a scowl, whilernHopper deliberately provokes him withrnthe suggestion that all Sicilians havernblack ancestors. We can read the scenernclearly and understand how Hopper isrntrying to enrage Walken so as to get arnquicker, less painful death. It’s up tornWalken to carry the burden of this menace,rnand he does so with great charmrnand mannerly aplomb. It’s like StanleyrnKubrick’s demonstration in The Shiningrnthat brightness and light can be as frighteningrnas the shadows and murk of conventionalrnhorror flicks.rnThe feckless couple take their suitcasernoff to Los Angeles, which Scott contrivesrnto make almost as ugly as Detroit,rngiving us not only the exuberant tawdrinessrnof its motels and restaurants butrncolors of sky that seem positively diseased.rnI worried for a while that thisrnchange of locale might make for somerndegree of relaxation of the agreeablernconfinement and artifactuality of thernmovie, but this didn’t happen. Saul Rubinekrnand Bronson Pinchot do small butrngraceful turns as a low-grade moviernmogul and his lower-grade stooge tornwhom Clarence is trying to sell his noserncandy. And the conclusion is as machine-rntooled as anv Fevdeau farce, whichrnis a bizarre stylistic model for a moviernwith such gritty and bloody substancern. . . but why not? I think of how Kurosawarnmade I’he Seven Samurai and thenrnsaw John Sturges’ exaggerated adaptationrnof the film, The Magnificent Seven,rnwhich he thought was so funny he madernan exaggerated adaptation of that, whichrnwas Yojimbo. And the more outrageousrnthese movies got, the darker their suggestionsrnwere about what kind of godsrnmight be looking down and laughing atrnall this spectacular swordplay and strenuousrngunplay.rnIn the end, the inevitable shoot-’emuprnmay involve just a few hundredrnpounds too many of flying feathers. Wernknow by now what most of the fallingrnbodies on the screen ought to have realizedrn—that because this is farce, no onernshould take it personally. A severe philosophy,rnperhaps, but it is a lovelyrnpremise for a motion picture. This is onernto catch!rnJohn Woo’s movies are also violent,rnand Woo has been much in the news.rnFor the American Soldier DraggedrnThrough the Streets in SomaUarnOctober 5,1993rnby Katberine McAlpinernOne more “peacekeeping mission” overturned;rnone more bloody sacrifice to anotherrnforeign war. How long before we learnrnjust to keep out and let them kill each other?rnI’his successful Hong Kong cineaste hasrnmade his Hollywood debut with HardrnTarget, which features Jean-Claude VanrnDamme as a Zydeco knight errant. I lererntoo the notion is that with enoughrnviolence on the screen to satisfy the appetitesrnof the mob, it is possible to makernother more interesting kinds of gestures,rnchoreographing intricate balletic effectsrnand various sorts of jokes and diversionsrnalong the way. Some of the asides arernhard not to like—as when Van Dammernbites the rattle off the tail of a rattlernsnake and then punches it to stun it sornthat he can leave it for one of his pursuers.rnBut the main joke is one of selfdeprecation,rnand, if the film persistentl}rnmakes fun of itself, then it winds uprnmaking fun of its audiences, too. Woo isrnlaughing at us, whether we laugh at hisrnmovie or not.rnThe story, defiantly absurd, is a slightrnupdating and downgrading of the 1932rnmovie The Most Dangerous Game, arnpiece of pinko paranoia in which ruthlessrnrich men (what other kind is there?)rnhunt human game. Chance Boudreauxrn(Van Damme) goes up against thesernbaddies and, in a warehouse out in thernbayous that just happens to be full of oldrnMardi Gras paraphernalia, we get a seriesrnof attacks and counterattacks, beatings,rnshots, and explosions that are at firstrnstrenuous enough to be lively but quicklyrnturn repetitive and tiresome. Neitherrnfrightening nor funny, but just . . . toornlong. I rented The Killer, one of Woo’srnlast Hong Kong carnage movies, about arncop and a killer who recognize that theyrnhave a lot in common. Its final scene, arnshoot-out in a church, was a spoof notrnjust of itself but of all movies, especiallyrnthe old De Mille melodramas. In this,rnthe not-altogether-bad bad guy resolvesrnto sacrifice hiniself, if only the cop, hisrnfraternal adversary, will promise to arrangernfor a surgeon to use his corneas tornrestore the sight of the poor blindedrnsinger he loves, but wouldn’t yournknow—these noble intentions are altogetherrnfrustrated when he gets shot inrnthe eyes. Blinded and dying, he gropesrnalong the floor for the blinded girl whornis groping toward him—and theyrnmiss each other! It’s so extravagant andrnmovie-ish as to radiate a certain degreernof dim charm. At least the audiencernisn’t the only hard target, as is the easernwith his latest film.rnDavid R. Slavitt is a poet and novelistrnliving in Philadelphia.rn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn