The way I see it, there are two distinct ways to see this movie. You can bemoan it for robbing you of a full Tarantino movie, delivered in his prime, by saddling the plot with an unexpected swerve into Robert Rodriguez exploitation. Or, you can sit back and enjoy it for the utterly unpredictable, bewildering, guns-blazing, "I can't believe that just happened," speed boat ride that it is. I fall into the latter camp, and while both directors have undeniably made more intelligent, well-rounded pictures, there's no denying From Dusk Till Dawn has a certain unusual charm that's tough to nail down.

Tarantino's script elaborates loosely on a lot of the social observations he'd originally made in Natural Born Killers, while the film's semi-serious, tongue-in-cheek attitude is an obvious precursor to the superduo's eventual collaborations on Grindhouse, which marks it as an evolutionary milestone of sorts for both men. George Clooney steals most every scene as a take-no-shit heistmeister who's desperate to cross the Mexican border, Harvey Keitel seems unusually understated as a soft-spoken jaded preacher, and Tarantino himself breaks out his C-level acting chops in an appropriately stiff, detached performance as Clooney's creepy, sexual predator brother. Wasn't quite the joyride I'd remembered it as, but still provided a few laughs and a barrel full of blood.