Kill Bill Vol. 1 (2003)
The first time I saw Kill Bill Vol. 1, it was on a beat-up second-hand DVD, playing on a two-hundred-pound television. Cut to nearly fifteen years later, and last night, I watched it on Quentin Tarantino’s private 35mm print at his theater, the New Beverly, here in LA. It was a different experience — more vivid, more alive — but no more or less special. This film has stuck with me. Like the sharp yellow tracksuit Uma Thurman wears, Kill Bill Vol. 1 is unforgettable, a loud, unrelenting slice of cinema that refuses to fade.
Now over twenty years old, the film holds a different place in the pantheon of Tarantino’s work than it did when I first saw it. Back then, he was gearing up to release Inglourious Basterds, riding the wave of his early success. Today, he’s older, probably wiser, but no less sharp. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood proved he’s still got the juice — still capable of shaking up the industry as he did in the ’90s. Sean Baker even thanked Tarantino in his Oscar speech this year, crediting him for casting Mikey Madison in Once Upon a Time, a break that helped land her in Anora. Tarantino’s influence hasn’t waned; it’s evolved.
This puts Kill Bill Vol. 1 in an interesting spot. It’s the bridge between his early, lean crime thrillers and the wilder, more indulgent middle period that followed. Watching it again, I was struck by how much has been stolen, borrowed, and parodied from it — the music cues, the quick cuts, the arterial spray. It’s the kind of movie that burns itself into your brain. Scene after scene, I realized I hadn’t forgotten a frame.
What makes the film endure? One crucial creative decision: it’s a fantasy. Sure, Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, and Jackie Brown flirt with heightened reality, but Kill Bill leaps off the cliff. It’s a love letter to grindhouse cinema, to the blood-soaked, revenge-fueled B-movies that made Tarantino want to pick up a camera in the first place. It doesn’t just wear its influences on its sleeve — it slathers them across the screen in bold, unapologetic strokes.
Let’s be honest — this is Uma Thurman’s most iconic role, full stop. Pulp Fiction may have put her on the map, and she is phenomenal there too, but Kill Bill is where she becomes electric. She’s a stoic, vengeful Clint Eastwood cowboy blended with Bruce Lee’s ferocity — a mesmerizing, unforgettable force of nature. The gender dynamics add another layer, pulling from the ’70s revenge film playbook but flipping it on its head. It’s a landscape tailor-made for Thurman to dominate, cementing her as one of the great cinematic icons.
The Japanese setting becomes Tarantino’s playground, letting him pay homage to the kung-fu and samurai flicks he worshipped as a kid. It’s a mash-up of styles — over-the-top, heartfelt, awkward in just the right way — and it all works because the film knows exactly what it is. The cultural nods, some a little cringeworthy by today’s standards, don’t feel forced. The anime sequence, the sleek, mod Tokyo aesthetics — all of it makes Kill Bill Vol. 1 one of the most visually arresting films in Tarantino’s catalog. His eye for detail is razor-sharp; this film never wavers from its purpose. It knows what it is, and will kindly tell you to fuck off if you don’t like it. It’s unrelenting, brash, and utterly confident. It doesn’t ask for your approval. It dares you to look away — knowing you won’t.
I didn’t expect to walk out of the New Beverly feeling any differently about Kill Bill Vol. 1, but I was pleasantly surprised by how much more powerful the experience was seeing it again. I’m looking forward to watching Vol. 2 when it comes up on the Beverly's schedule — a welcome break from the relentless violence will give me a chance to process the second half of the story, especially now that I’ve revisited the first in this new context.
All in all, two thumbs up for a film that’s nearly a quarter-century old. I’m happy to say it still carries the same vitality it did on its original release, even bolder as time passes. That’s not something you can say for every film.