Starring Rose McGowan and Kurt Russell. Rated 18A.

There will be those who will argue that Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino cheat with Grindhouse, their blood-spattered, double-bill ode to '70s exploitation flicks. After all, as cool as it was to have The Corpse Grinders teamed with Two-Lane Blacktop back in the day, that was only because some things are so bad they're good. The problem with the two 85-minute halves of Grindhouse–Rodriguez's zombie ode Planet Terror and Tarantino's car-chase homage Death Proof–is that they're both accomplished knockouts, albeit for different reasons.

Rose McGowan is the big revelation in Planet Terror. As down-on-herself go-go dancer Cherry Darling, she shows more range than one would expect from a vamp with a machine gun where her right leg used to be. The rest of the cast shoots no higher than camp classic. That suits the material just fine, as Rodriguez abandons the hyper-stylized artistry of Sin City for a cheapo, faithful-to-the-genre approach that's all about the gore. In the tradition of Dawn of the Dead, the blood doesn't flow so much as explode in Texas-sized geysers. If your idea of classy is machine gun–toting twin Mexican baby sitters, zombies that look like a bad day at the Troma studios, and an amputee with impeccable aim, Planet Terror is your splatter flick of the year.

Death Proof also plants its scratched-up, colour-saturated flag in the '70s. Try as he might, though, Tarantino can't resist the urge to be, well, Tarantino. That's a great thing, as the director is as eager to pay tribute to car-smash classics like Dirty Mary Crazy Larry as he is to salute himself. (Referencing the diner sequence from Reservoir Dogs, Death Proof contains a long, round-the-table take at a restaurant featuring his four female leads; instead of talking about Madonna riding dick, they ruminate on fate and Filipino raves.) After proving he's still got the best ear for dialogue in the business, Tarantino puts the pedal to the metal. Kurt Russell (reembracing his inner '80s-era bad-ass) is Stuntman Mike, a Hollywood failure whose big moment was standing in for Robert Urich. Playing herself–which makes for some inspired meta-movie magic–stuntwoman Zoe Bell runs away with the adrenaline-overdosed show as a risk-taking kiwi with a thing for made-in-America muscle cars.

Death Proof makes no secret of the fact that it's got a major boner for the 1971 car-crash thriller Vanishing Point. But no matter how much rubber he burns, Tarantino never loses sight of the fact that he's behind the wheel of a quickie B movie. That will disappoint those hoping for a Kill Bill–style epic. The rest of us will long for the days when trashy–but, in this case, killer–double bills like Planet Terror and Death Proof played musty theatres with ripped-up seats, rather than shiny multiplexes.