Say Quentin Tarantino's name aloud, and even the most pedestrian moviegoer

immediately attaches a distinct face, style and numerous impressions of his

work. In a little over a decade, he's led several careers in the course of

one.

The early 1990s cast the "Pulp Fiction" icon as the harbinger of independent film and the brashest, most publicized filmmaker since Orson Welles. Yet he faced an inevitable media backlash — perpetuated by overexposure, scurrilous rumors, fistfights and a maligned stab at stage acting — not to mention

pressures levied by an overeager, cultish fan-base.

When he delivered the modest (for him), relaxed groove of "Jackie Brown,"

the media and the public patted him on the back and declared that "Brown"

was no "Fiction." The consensus? "Try harder, Quentin, and make good on

your promise."

So Q.T. went away for awhile — six years, to be exact — and pulled out an old

idea he once hatched with Uma Thurman about a vengeful bride-to-be and her

pursuit of Bill, a former lover and employer as leader of The Deadly Viper

Assassination Squad.

Then, last fall, Tarantino finally unleashed "Kill Bill: Vol. 1," a gonzo-kung-fu-revenge extravaganza enflamed with a geek's savvy and hell-bent on greatness. It succeeded with aplomb, chockfull of whiplash montages, action set pieces, dismembered limps and deliberately fake "movie" blood. The brouhaha surrounding his fourth film, however, focused on the decision to chop the "Kill Bill" saga in half to obviate a numbing four-hour length. This time, the consensus tended to be, "Pretty good, Quentin, but the second part better be worth our time (and eight bucks)."

It truly is, rest assured: Now that we have "Vol. 2" to savor, Tarantino's creative tenacity and incendiary skill should silence the gainsayers and

quench the thirst of any fan. Taken as a whole, the series offers more sheer pleasure and giddy, movie-lovin' thrills than any recent film in memory. It's an invigorating experience — the director's magnum opus, as it turns out — one that assaults the viewer with equal part restraint and palpable glee. (The title sequence alone left me more awestruck than most films manage to accomplish in two hours.)

"Vol. 2" charts the final part of The Bride's quest to enact the titular revenge. After eliminating Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox) and O-Ren Ishii

(Lucy Liu) — the first two names on her "Death List Five," composed of former D.V.A.S. colleagues who ruined her wedding day, to say the least — The Bride (Uma Thurman) lands in Texas, seeking out Bill's brother Budd (Michael Madsen). Of course, there are some setbacks in her her cycle of revenge, such as the vindictive Elle Driver (Daryl Hannah) and a vacant gravesite, but I shouldn't reveal too much.

Those who couldn't swallow "Vol. 1's" bloodletting could still find reward here. Like "Jackie Brown," "Vol. 2" is a patient, contemplative tale, indicative of the director's acknowledged and often unnoted talents: The keen sense of character and setting, the leisured pacing and adept use (and love) of actors, his well-tuned ear for music and, of course, the patented, pop culture-laden monologue, which surfaces during Bill's (David Carradine) lengthy discussion of Superman's mythology.

Surprisingly, the latter serves as a compelling explanation of Bill's heinous act — for once, Tarantino's pop musings extrapolate a character's deeper motivations in lieu of demonstrating their casual application of "trivial" knowledge to everyday life. It's incredibly heartening to find him maturing as a writer, even if "Kill Bill's" screenplay admittedly relies on convention over pure originality.

Tarantino's never been a mere imitator, though. He's always suffused his work with a singular voice, an unbridled passion for what's onscreen, and

one needn't look further for evidence of this than the performers themselves. The supporting cast is exemplary — who knew Daryl Hannah could snarl with such conviction? — but the two leads work wonders with the material.

And Thurman banishes all memory of Poison Ivy. As The Bride, a.k.a. Black Mamba, she exudes a hitherto unseen power, physicality and grace — not only is it the greatest female action performance of all time, but it's also one of most memorable female roles period. Carradine oozes by with charming

yet menacing ease, making for the slickest villain with the least screen time since Welles' Harry Lime.

And when they eventually square off, Tarantino again shows maturation as an artist by making their battle one of words rather than swordplay or martial

arts. He mines his characters' pathos like never before, and as The Bride literally and figuratively breaks Bill's heart, the genuine emotion behind

the action is undeniably vivid and well earned.

With "Inglorious Bastards," Tarantino's proposed World War II epic, on the horizon, I'd gladly wait another six years for a film as jubilant, deliciously chaotic and stoned on cinematic love as "Kill Bill" turned out to be.