☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Pulp
Fiction (1994) – Q. Tarantino
There are parts of Pulp Fiction that have
not aged well or perhaps they were always flaws (excessive use of profanity
including the N word, glamorisation of drug use and violence, Tarantino's own
very bad acting), but on the whole, those things that made it feel fresh in
1994 still work. I still chuckled at Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta (two
hit men) discussing foot massages and the Royale with cheese, the nonlinear
narrative structure and triptych of stories creates interest rather than
confounds, and the soundtrack is cracking and perfectly edited into the
picture. One wonders how much writing
partner Roger Avary contributed (his career shared similar sensibilities but
has not taken off in the same way).
Although the title says it all, and allows us to accept that the stories
here will wallow in the gutter a bit, there is still a degree of crassness in
Tarantino that might masquerade as hep coolness, cherishing bad grindhouse
features, but is also still sexist, homophobic, racist or what-have-you (not
that these prejudices all contaminate Pulp Fiction -- but they aren’t shied
away from in Tarantino’s oeuvre either; perhaps he feels authentic by not
hiding them away?). But perhaps I’m denigrating
Pulp Fiction too much – it is still a pop entertainment, not seeking depth or
anything more than relishing a fanboy’s joy at paying homage and tweaking classic
film noir genres (the boxer who throws the fight or doesn’t, the hitman who has
a moment of clarity, the fixer who averts crises for the gang, the Deliverance
style bad trip that brings foes together, the hitman who takes his boss’s wife
out and screws up, and so on) and tipping us to the music he loves. (Not to
mention his goal of reinvigorating careers, such as with Travolta’s ace turn here). Did Tarantino continue to feel such joy in
filmmaking as he progressed in his career?
Sometimes yes, maybe sometimes no.
I haven’t seen his latest yet but will be interested to see if he has
transcended his limitations by now.
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