That's Tony Tarantino, Quentin's father, a bit actor doused in Grecian Formula, and writer-director Jim Meyer, an ex-used-car-salesman who hosts a public access TV show in Marin County called "The Jim Meyer Show." Have you seen it? Neither have we.
Our interest was piqued (as all involved had no doubt calculated) by the Tarantino name. When we learned that the digital video's budget was only $20,000, that it was "re-mastered to look like a black and white film noir," and that it starred Serria Tawan, Playboy's Miss November 2002, wild horses couldn't hold us back.
A beat-up limo pulled up to the Mission's ornate Victoria Theatre and out spilled Tenderloin actress Keishana Johnson in a homemade red sequin gown. She stars as the good guy's bad wife. Her posse mingled with a crew of Harley riders on a ratty red carpet. The bikers had spent a day getting wasted as extras in the film's bar scene and now were ready for their close-ups. Inside, a sheepish, baby-faced Meyer took the mike and explained to an uproarious audience of 200-plus that the editors had finished only that afternoon.
"If you've seen any of my other films," said Meyer, whose oeuvre also includes something called Path of Depravity, "then you know that some technical difficulties are to be expected."
There were some writing difficulties as well. In fact, the plot of Blood Money was so choppy and convoluted that it's hard to explain. It seemed to revolve around the world's last honest financial adviser being stalked by a murderous client (Tarantino), who thinks the adviser stiffed him for $100,000.
The opening sequence introduces Susan Dills as an evil old lady who enters a beautiful blind woman's bedroom. Dills, seated behind us, chirped, "That's me!" The sightless lovely asks the granny to help her with her earring. "Sure, honey!" says the old lady, who then chops the blind chick's head off with an axe. Two hours and many gruesome bloodbaths later, we heard Dills whisper in shock, "I had no idea." We last saw her slinking out of the theater, collar up, head low.
Like most of the Blood Money actors, Dills was an earnest performer, giving it her all, perhaps hoping for a breakthrough. To be billed next to a Tarantino, any Tarantino apparently, means something to the up-and-coming. In the actors' defense, it's difficult to gauge how a film will turn out from their side of the camera. Decent digital films have started to emerge from Hollywood, such as The Good Girl, Celebration, and Star Wars Episode II. But the Bowfinger-style methods that Meyer and his colleagues resorted to should have served as red flags as to where Blood Money was headed. Like the time the filmmakers flagged down a truck on a Solano County highway because they couldn't afford to rent one for a scene in which zombies kill a really, really mean lady driver. The overall look of the film is akin to the surveillance camera playback of a liquor store holdup. Grainy blobs lurching around, diagonal stripes bisecting the screen, incomprehensible dialogue, gore galore.
Perhaps this is what we should have expected from the guy whose loins produced Quentin Tarantino, maker of the ultrabloody Kill Bill. You have to wonder what father and son might have discussed around the dinner table: new ways to slash carotid arteries? But Blood Money also makes clear why we haven't heard much before about Tony Tarantino. In a scene that had the house pissing its pants and drowning out the audio with catcalls, Tarantino tries to play tough guy while a white cockatiel mimics him. The clench-jawed Tarantino goes mano-a-girlo with the assistant district attorney (Tawan) while the bird, screen right, steals the show.
During a gratuitous lesbian sex scene, a multilevel marketing saleswoman tries to bed the wife of the financial guy, who's been drugged by the granny hitwoman. Did we mention the old lady is a satanic zombie hired by Tarantino to kill the hero? There are lots of zombies. In fact, the entire audience had a pasty glow upon exit.
Safely ensconced on the 22 Fillmore, we snorted and laughed with a friend at our grainy Blood Money memories. A nice man in a yellow sweater in front of us cleared his throat and said, "Are you talking about the film?" We nodded. "I was in that film," he said quietly. Oops. We immediately recognized him as one of Tarantino's associates, apologized, and complimented him on his acting. "No, no, don't worry," he said wistfully. "I understand."
Surprisingly, the filmmakers don't feel they're in deep doo-doo with Blood Money. They plan to return to the editing studio to work out the, ahem, glitches. Indeed, they got a shot of encouragement from Anita Correa, the Victoria Theatre's artistic director, who invited them back for her "Fearless Tales" horror film festival in March. "They need to take a look at the problems, obviously, but I got a kick out of it," says Correa. "I'm willing to take another look."
Blood Money clearly struck some form of horror in the hearts of the audience. "We know they were laughing at us," says ever-optimistic producer Franc Harriss, whose day job is catering. "But they were laughing with us, too. We know it's bad. We know it's beyond bad. But it's fixable."
