For all the cinematic dreck currently peddling disorienting editing as «action,» no one in good conscience could deride Tarantino for his indulgence in split screens or extreme close ups or smash zooms or any other
mode of cinematic gimmickry, when it affords us hauntingly sparse centerpieces such as The Bride's
live burial, an aural choir
of oppressive dirt, panting whimpers, and futile
struggling set to the visual accompaniment
of pitch black confinement that stretches on well past any spectator's comfort level.
In each
of these works, the human body
struggling to find a
mode of expression becomes a metaphor for
living under censorship and political repression.