By Pat Sisson

An audacious doubleheader packed with visceral thrills, scratchy film stock and mock trailers, Grindhouse is a three-hour marathon of trash cinema recycled and re-imagined by two masters. While the occasional cell phone or Hummer plays with our sense of nostalgia, this is retro recreation, down to the "missing" film reels and overdone archetypes. In Robert Rodriguez's Planet Terror, soldiers at a military base are exposed to a poisonous gas that turns people into skin-bubbling, flesh-craving zombies (and we thought Walter Reed was bad!). As the abutting Texas town becomes overrun by the undead, a shady and eccentric crew of survivors -- including self-confessed "nobody" mechanic Wray (Freddy Rodriguez), doctor Dakota Block (Marley Shelton) and go-go dancer-turned-gun-toting beauty Cherry Darling (Rose McGowan) -- shoots its way toward survival. In Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof, Austin radio DJ Jungle Julia (Sydney Tamiia Poitier) is out bar-hopping with friends when they run into scarred and seemingly likable loner Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell), previously seen revving the engine of his muscle car in the shadows. Mike comes across as an eccentric teetotaler, but as it becomes clear that young women get his (and his car's) pistons pumping, the girl's night out turns into a high-speed nightmare.

Of the two directors, Rodriguez, fresh off his Sin City comic triumph, delivers the most intense and kitschy ride. Planet Terror opens with Cherry salaciously twirling onstage with tears in her eyes. Reinforced by snarling saxophones and scratchy film stock that suggestively melts on-screen, it's pure, cheap danger and adolescent appeal, something Rodriguez rarely fails to deliver throughout his half of Grindhouse. A clever pastiche of zombie-film tropes served up with knowing winks at horror clichés, it's a loving recreation right down to the brooding synthesized soundtrack and undead cannon fodder bursting like sacks of jelly.

Tarantino stumbles during his hipster hot rod flick Death Proof. While he references numerous cult classics, the most glaring and annoying influence seems to be Pulp Fiction. A never-ending stream of effortlessly cool dialogue among chicks from the in-crowd recalls Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield shooting the shit, and the camera constantly takes cues from the hip soundtrack. A thrilling car chase shows Tarantino can master new tricks, but he seems too obsessed with being stylized to serve up pure, retro slop with the same unabashed pleasure of Rodriguez. The fake films advertised in the amazing tacked-on trailers -- including a Halloween spoof called Thanksgiving; and Machete, boasting the tagline "You Fucked With the Wrong Mexican" -- are much more in the authentic Grindhouse spirit.