Carradine - The Kill Bill diary: the making of a Tarantino classic as seen through the eyes of a screen legend

THE
KILL
BILL
DIARY

The Making of a Tarantino Classic as Seen
Through the Eyes of a Screen Legend

David Carradine

For Si Litvinov, who gave me the idea,

and

for Annie, who suffered with me through the long nights it took to write it,

and, of course,

for Quentin
and
the whole Band Apart

Contents

T his story could begin way back in 1996, when I first met QT (Quentin Tarantino, not Shhh) at the bar in the Sutton Place Hotel, during the Toronto Film Festival, or it could start on April 8, 2002, when I officially started the Kill Bill training. I know it was beginning to build a couple of years ago, when my little brother Mike Bowen (we have different mothers and fathers) told me on the hush-hush that Quentin was writing something for me.

More likely, the process that led me to Kill Bill began in earnest when I made the decision to grasp the hand of that elusive lady named Destiny myself, if only with my fingertips. That was during the summer of 2001, in Los Angeles. Days were lazy. The heat wave had passed, and from my eagles aerie on the ninth floor of the condominium where I was temporarily residing, still smarting in the aftermath of my latest divorce, I could see palm trees waving their heads above Hollywood Boulevard, the traffic noises muted by the height. It was all very nice. Farther on, the smog took over to obscure the view, but it was all pretty benign that day.

I was trying to get up the nerve to fly to Austin, Texas, to try to hobnob with QT (the nerve and the bread). I had run into Quentin at a club about a month earlier, where we had both gone to hear Jeff Goldblums jazz combo (Jeff plays a mean piano), and hed rapped with me for a couple of hours, about all kinds of things, but all of it had to do with movies. Quentin doesnt care about anything else. Harvey Keitel, whom I knew from way back, when we worked together on Mean Streets (God, he was great!), was alongside, grinning throughout (suspiciously, I thought; as though he and Q shared some secret). Quentin makes movies featuring cult people who cant get work. This could get interesting, I mused. He told me about this festival he runs every year where he shows a lot of movies he likes (and generally the critics hate) to cult moviegoers and other weirdos.

I decided Id do it and the devil take the hindmost and the credit card. Go now, pay later, right? In blood, probably. I thought it might be a good way to get to know him better. I was dead-ass right. I made it there to Austinflying coach, of courseand stretched my credit card even further staying at the best hotel in town. All this might have been one of my lifes greatest decisions.

Quentin and I truly cooked together. The day I showed, he was having an all-night marathon of four revenge movies, between each of which, by sheer, happy coincidence (if there is such a thing), he was screening a 16 mm print of a Kung Fu episode from his collection, one from each season. I, of course, had to get up on stage with Quentin to talk about them. It turned out we were a great stand-up team. I left Austin with both of us knowing each other a lot better.

A little later, I got together with him again to show him the movie Id made in Austin with Brother Mike Bowen, Natural Selection, a comedy about a serial killer, right up Quentins alley, with me as the serial-killer hunter.

Theyve changed the name for the DVD release, to Monster Hunter. Dont ask me why. It makes it sound like some kind of horror flick. But that happens all the time with independent movies. They change the name from something artistic or literate to something catchy but dumb. Its happened to me a few times. The Jade Jungle became Armed Response, Moonlight Sonata was released as Midnight Terror. The Silent Flute became Circle of Iron. I think its something about distributors needing to mark their territory. They have to piss on it just before they release it. If these guys had been around in 1939, The Wizard of Oz would have been called Witch Hunter, and Gone With the Wind would have been The Burning of Atlanta, or Rhetts Revenge.

I told Quentin I wasnt too sure about my performance. Its kind of over the top, I said. Quentin laughed. Ive gotta see that! He has his own screening room, decked out like a 50s movie theater. He calls it The Church. A perfect replica of a 50s movie house.

He showed some grungy trailers before the film, and several of those cartoons advertising popcorn and soda pop, which, by the way, were available, along with a gourmet spread of sushi and fine wine.

Okay, now, fast-forward to 2002.

Volume
One

I m back from across the great water. After four weeks in Alicante, Spain, making a movie called La Bala Perdida (The Lost Bullet). Had the greatest time, riding my noble stallion and doing fast draws, surrounded by crazy Spaniards who hardly spoke English. Had to (get that: HAD to) stop in Paris on the way back. My wife, Annie, and I spent one glorious romantic night there, and then took the Eurostar, the train that goes under the English Channel, to jolly old London to close a deal to do a play there next year. We walked the streets, saw a play, and took the train back to Paris for one more day. It turned out our flight was cancelled something to do with terroristsso we were forced to stay an extra two days in Paris. Poor us.

Our hotel was a sweet little bed-and-breakfast right around the corner from the Arc de Triomphe. We visited the Sacre Coeur, a beautiful church on a hill that overlooks all of Paris, above the Place Pigale, where all the strippers hang out. A visit there has been an always tradition of mine since around 75. We spent an afternoon on the Ile St. Louis, an island in the middle of the Seine, and crossed the bridge to the Ile de la Cit, where Notre Dame Cathedral is, the place where Quasimodo the hunchback rang those bells. Then, that night, I took Annie for an extra treat: the Crazy Horse Saloon, for the classiest strip show on earth. She was almost the only female there, except for the ones on stage. Annie loved it. My kind of girl. After the show, the owner made us get on stage with the girls for a picture.

We walked back to our little hotel on a rare balmy Paris night, and kissed on the sidewalk, something we try to do on every sidewalk were on. So far, weve done that in seven cities on three continents, plus a few small towns, and a temple or two.

When we got back home to L.A., there were three messages from Quentin Tarantino. Something about a documentary he was doing; interviews connected with the DVD releases of Quentins movie Jackie Brown. There was also a message from my agent. I called him first, and was told I was up for a movie called Kill Bill, directed by Tarantino and starring Warren Beatty. I called Quentin and we set it up to meet at a Thai restaurant on Sunset Boulevard the next day, Friday. I was jumping! Im going to be in a Warren Beatty film!

T he next morning, I dressed myself in the cool clothes Annie had impelled me to buy in Alicante, Spain, and hopped into my 82 Maserati Quatro Porte. The place was hard to find. There were three Thai restaurants within two blocks, none of them with the name I remembered Quentin giving me. On the third try, I finally walked into a dark chamber with 50s rock & roll posters on the walls. I knew this must be the place. Quentin was already eating. I didnt recognize anything on the menu, so I ordered something more or less at random, which turned out to be a huge pile of noodles. Quentin talked pleasantly about this and that.