Intended as an homage to ’70s drive-in trash, the new action-horror-comedy From Dusk Till Dawn steals mercilessly from old EC Comics, George Romero’s Living Dead movies, the shock-art tableaux of S. Clay Wilson, and the tequila-shot energy of Tex-Mex rock ’n’ roll. The film is hopelessly juvenile and discouragingly venal, and yet there’s no denying that it has welcome doses of wit and style. Had From Dusk Till Dawn been created by nobodies—say, directed by Alan Smithee, from a script by R. Hyde—then the offbeat, more-intelligent-than-usual exploitation flick might actually be something laudatory.

Unfortunately, From Dusk Till Dawn was not created by nobodies; it was written by wunderkind Quentin Tarantino and directed by fellow upstart Robert Rodriguez, and with their great names comes great responsibility. Tarantino and Rodriguez have scoured the gutters of pop culture for inspiration before, but in From Dusk Till Dawn they don’t transcend the junk. They begin using gun-toting psychopaths and topless vampires as fuel for their imaginations, but by the end of the film, their source material is merely a crutch.

The script for From Dusk Till Dawn is a typically twisted piece of Tarantinoism. Two bank-robbing brothers, on a crime spree through Texas, hijack a vacationing family for transport across the border. Once in Mexico, the adventure takes a shocking turn when the family and the criminals stumble into a hellish biker bar—an all-night strip club run by vampires.

The cast alone is an exploitation geek’s dream. Harvey Keitel plays the head of the terrorized household, and Juliette Lewis portrays his daughter. Among the vampires and victims are such old-school exploitation icons as Fred “The Hammer” Williamson and splatter-effects whiz Tom Savini, as well as the exciting newcomer Salma Hayek, who completely steals her five minutes of the movie. In the roles of the callous Gecko brothers are Tarantino himself (treading water as an actor, as always) and E.R.’s George Clooney. Clooney, although charismatic in his starring debut, doesn’t make much of a bad guy—whenever he leans over to threaten somebody, you half expect him to say, “OK, what we’re doing here is called a spinal drip—it’s painful, but it could save your son’s life!”

Tarantino livens up the pulpy story with smatterings of his patented quirky dialogue—an opening conversation between a corrupt state trooper and a slack redneck clerk has an almost musical crudity—and he indulges, briefly, in an unnerving examination of evil, anchored by Keitel’s portrayal of a Baptist preacher having a crisis of faith. For a time, From Dusk Till Dawn is an intriguing riff on road movies, with a darkly comic tone that is more dark than comic.

Sadly, those good times don’t last, and by the time the story crosses the border, the film inexplicably begins to sputter. Although still exciting and even funny, From Dusk Till Dawn becomes less about invention and more about routine action poses. Rodriguez does a credible job with the action material, but his imagination seems to run inversely proportional to the amount of money he has to throw around. His ultra-cheapie El Mariachi drew strength from balletic stunts rather than high-tech effects, but From Dusk Till Dawn, a movie that cries out for gritty, shoestring style, relies instead on sluggish effects of morphing vampires: It’s as though the filmmakers ran out of time and decided to let the exploitation elements be their own selling point. Although that excuse might have had some integrity coming from true purveyors of schlock, it rings hollow coming out of the mouths of men who can get George Clooney and Harvey Keitel for their movie.

Even at half strength, From Dusk Till Dawn is still exponentially better than The Mangler, Lawnmower Man 2, In the Mouth of Madness, Wes Craven’s New Nightmare, and the handful of other lifeless horror films that have darkened the screens over the past few years. But the problem with From Dusk Till Dawn is not that it fails to deliver what it promises—there’s plenty of gore, guns and nudity—but that it delivers little more. Coming on the heels of a year full of interesting but flawed films, From Dusk Till Dawn represents the birth of some rough new beast. Gone is the honorable failure; in slouches the dishonorable success.—Noel Murray

Restorative Powers

From one angle of approach, England during the Restoration has a passing resemblance to life at the end of the 20th century. The time following the return of England’s monarchy to the throne was marked by scientific, social and artistic enlightenment—as well as plague, poverty and class tension. Sound familiar?

By recounting the reversals of fortune of a young Englishman (Robert Downey Jr.), Michael Hoffman’s film Restoration offers a funny and fascinating 17th-century history lesson. A bawdy period piece along the lines of Tom Jones, Restoration is also part character study, part satire and part romance. That’s a little much for one movie to attempt, but Restoration’s ribaldry proves refreshing after the invasion of Jane Austen’s repressed romances.

During the 1660s, Robert Merivel (Downey) is a gifted London doctor more interested in earthy pleasures than in healing the sick. His situation changes when Charles II (Sam Neill) urgently summons him to court to heal one of the royal spaniels. Winning the king’s favor, Merivel becomes a foolish fixture at the palace, until Charles makes him a less-than-decent proposal.

If Merivel agrees to a name-only marriage to the king’s mistress Celia (Polly Walker), he will be handsomely rewarded with his own estate and knighthood. But Merivel can resist anything except temptation, and he inevitably grows enamored of Celia. When the king gets wise, Merivel is stripped of royal favors and cast out of paradise.

This turn of events leads to a more self-consciously serious second half, as the dispossessed Merivel becomes fascinated with Katherine (Meg Ryan), a delusional Irishwoman in a Quaker-run madhouse. The film carries Merivel from rags to riches several times, as he faces the horrors of the Black Death, the Great London Fire of 1666, and, most challenging of all, fatherhood.

Adapted by Rupert Walters from Rose Tremain’s novel of the same name, Restoration tries to convey the sweep of history while telling Merivel’s story on intimate terms. It’s a tall order, and some of the plot developments seem contrived. (In the film’s silliest scene, Merivel experiments with dancing as psychotherapy for the asylum inmates.)

For the most part, though, Restoration captures the feel of a different age. Though modestly budgeted, the movie has a lavish look: The palace scenes brim with gilded treasures, voluptuous furnishings and decadent costumes. Intriguing period details include a knee-high hedge maze, a scale model of London, and a plague-protecting mask that favors a crow’s beak. Between the bucolic gardens of the upper class and the bubonic streets of the downtrodden, the filmmakers depict a contrast as great as heaven and hell.

The art direction is matched by the acting. Downey’s restraint is a relief after his overbearing work in Home for the Holidays: Playing smart but dissipated characters comes naturally to him, and he keeps his affectations to a tolerable minimum. Likewise, Ryan sheds her trademark perkiness to deliver an affecting performance free of the indulgence actors can bring to insane roles.

No less fine is the supporting cast. Hugh Grant proves much more acute as a foppish portrait painter than his usual stammering romantic leads, while Neill’s Charles II combines a royal bearing with a knowing twinkle. (Imagine Hugh Hefner as king.) But the best of the lot is David Thewlis as a dedicated medical man, who provides the conscience of the film and Merivel both. He’s canny, passionate and focused—and in his black Quaker getup, he resembles Cyrano de Bergerac as much as any actor can without wearing a prosthetic proboscis.

Miramax delayed the release of Restoration for a year, possibly because it was put off by the film’s unsteady shifts from comedy to drama, or because it was uncertain of the commercial appeal of such an offbeat period piece. But with its picaresque plot, sumptuous sets and pleasing performances, Restoration, like a prodigal son or Robert Merivel himself, is welcome at any time.—Curt Holman