The first time I saw Quentin Tarantino’s “Pulp Fiction” as a teenager (circa 1994), the film’s nonchronological sequences, impressive cinematography, and staccato, hipster-geek dialogue, filled with insider references to film and television, was an epiphany for this burgeoning film buff. The movie made me a Tarantino fan for life, and opened my eyes to how insanely good movies could be.

Around the same time, I caught “Desperado,” the sequel to a homemade indie called “El Mariachi,” and directed by Tarantino’s buddy, Robert Rodriguez.

“Desperado” was an amazing visceral experience at the movies and clued me in on Rodriguez’s talent as a virtuoso director of heart-pounding action cinema. (“Once Upon a Time in Mexico” with Johnny Depp completed Rodriguez’s trilogy).

So it was a surreal bit of kismet to have found myself rolling through the set of a Tarantino picture on Highway 246 last December, in between the shooting of a high-speed action sequence for the new Tarantino/Rodriguez double feature “Grindhouse.”

The film is a tribute to the movies these guys loved as kids — the ones that inspired them to become filmmakers, sharing their dreams on screen.

I found myself face to face with a black 1970s muscle car that features prominently in the film.

A stuntman told me the car, which features a chrome duck hood ornament, would be driven by Kurt Russell in the film. Russell plays a deranged stuntman named Mike who gets his kicks killing beautiful young women with his car.

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In the actual sequence, there’s an element in the chase (taking place just east of Buellton on the way to Lompoc and in parts of Figueroa Mountain Road), which proves heart-stopping in the theater.

The stunt, called the “ship’s mast,” is something too good to reveal here, but it reminded me of how much a movie can seriously push your adrenaline button.

These days, computer graphics can do so much for the eyes, but real old-school stunt work is so much more effective by going the extra mile for the stomach (Spielberg’s “Duel,” and his insane truck sequence in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” are some of my favorite examples of this.)

That’s what we get here with Tarantino’s “Death Proof,” a movie that celebrates ’70s and ’80s exploitation cinema; the effectiveness of real stunt-work; the wonderful rhythms of Tarantino’s dialogue; gratuitous gore; beautiful women with brains and guts; and the fun of Kurt Russell as the director’s comeback du jour.

Rodriguez’s picture in the double bill, “Planet Terror,” wasn’t as great in the dialogue department, and that’s precisely why I admired it so much. It’s like an episode of “Mystery Science Theater 3000,” the show where they make fun of bad movies, only the actors and filmmakers are in on the joke.

“Planet Terror” is a zombie movie involving a virus, the military, a vigilante and a go-go dancer with an assault rifle for a leg. Every line in the movie is an exercise in B-movie cheese. I loved lines like “I want to eat your brains, and gain your knowledge.” I was winded from laughing so much.

Kudos to “Planet Terror’s” satisfyingly bad synthesized score — a throwback to ’80s horror movies.

Rose McGowan (“Scream,” “Charmed”) really comes through here as a major presence in the film, both visually and verbally. The nicely shot “Planet Terror” action sequences, with her gun leg, satisfied me so much more than the ones in “300” ever could.

Before and in between films, filmmakers like Eli Roth (“Hostel”), Rob Zombie (“The Devil’s Rejects”), Edgar Wright (“Shaun of the Dead”) and Rodriguez treat us to fake horror movie trailers that are so achingly funny, the audience I saw the film with erupted into applause every time they ended.

My favorite moment, and there were many gut-busters, was when Nicholas Cage utters the immortal line “Welcome to my Mecca” as Fu Manchu in the preview for “Werewolf Women of the SS.” I do hope “Machete” is made into a movie.

“Grindhouse” is digitally aged, which makes it look as if the projector room operator had slapped on reels that had been played continuously since 1982 on run-down equipment from the 1950s.

The film transported me back to my youth, watching old worn ’80s videotapes of movies (with horrible tracking and screen resolution) like “Critters,” “Poltergeist” and the original “Terminator.”

There’s a certain spirit and charm to watching a well-worn movie print at a revival theater.

Whenever the reels switch, with all the scratches and pops on the soundtrack and footage, you can feel the wonderfully messy way it all comes through on the big screen. That’s what they do here.

It’s like the difference between wood and plastic, vinyl records and CDs, mom’s milk and baby formula. Each of these products carry similar intentions, but there’s character in imperfection. The horror movies these days are too spit-shine polished to be as effective as the classics.

It’s evident “Grindhouse” was absolutely made with love for people who are spiritually nourished by classic action and horror flicks.

In other words, if you have any sense of decency, avoid this film, because there’s explosions, gore, and sexy women aplenty.

Thankfully, all of that is served in a cinematically astonishing way.

(Three and a half stafs out of 4.)

Neil Nisperos can be reached at 737-1059 or nnisperos@lompocrecord.com.