The mimicry of 1970's poorly-made though much-loved, budget filmmaking was almost given credibility in the opening hour of Quentin Tarantino's Deathproof. Almost. This was largely due to the director's able-hands with dialogue and composition plus the bonus of a strong understanding of the traits that defined an era of film.

Robert Rodriguez, in his half of the ill-fated project, attempts to strike a similar balance with Planet Terror. He fails. Though equally understanding of the genre he is faking – sci-fi B-movie horror ridiculosity (yes, ridiculosity) – Planet Terror falls flat on its face due to the fact that it is so clearly a fake. When a comedian tells an anecdote it's always much more entertaining when the illusion of the true-story is kept in place; with Rodriguez's film the viewer is reminded constantly – be it by the wholly unconvincing Freddy Rodriguez or the director's fetish for his own cool – that this is a circus rather than a roadshow.

More inexcusable is the content of the film that travels the media - but more importantly the moral - gauntlet of violence against women and castration against men. The argument over whether or not directors like Tarantino and Rodriguez can excuse stabbing, beating and demeaning women due to their willingness to hand them an assault rifle or table leg with which to make amends isn't one that will be resolved here, but it is an issue that arises during Planet Terror's runtime more than once.

As entertainment the film is a one-trick pony consisting largely of the same three-minute cycle of intentionally bad dialogue succeeded by intentionally excessive gore and is therefore no less than a tedious, grotesque waste of time.

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