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Pulp Fiction (1994)

A review by Damian Cannon.
Copyright © Movie Reviews UK 1997
Following the audacious Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino scales new heights with a stupendous, electrifying look at the low-life scum populating an imaginary Los Angeles. Before the credits have a chance to roll we're teleported into a diner where Honey Bunny (Amanda Plummer) and Pumpkin (Tim Roth) are discussing their criminal future. Tiring of liquor stores and gas stations they decide to try their luck with restaurants -- starting with this one! Leaping to their feet the stick-up, and the titles, begins. In the next sequence Jules Winnfield (Samuel Jackson) and Vincent Vega (John Travolta) are discussing Vincent's extended stay in Amsterdam, as they travel to a hit. The conversation wanders over a wide range of topics, which would be mundane in isolation but are perfectly appropriate for these hired guns, such as the bizarre European habit of putting mayonnaise on fries.

Somehow their early morning job, of teaching a lesson to three youths who've double-crossed their boss, pales into insignificance compared to the fact that Vincent is taking Marsellus Wallace's (Ving Rhames) wife, Mia Wallace (Uma Thurman), out for the night. The way that Jules tells it, this is tantamount to playing Russian Roulette with six bullets -- judging by the fate of the last man to get near to Mia. The visit itself takes on a surreal air with the recovery of a briefcase (belonging to Marsellus) which emits a strange inner glow, captivating Vincent. Things don't go well for the young crooks though and, in a hail of bullets, we switch to the next tale in this tapestry of intermingling lives. Vincent is on his way to pick up Mia, stopping off to score some heroin from Lance (Eric Stoltz) on the way. After all, this could be a tense evening and Vincent need some fortification. In a euphoric haze he takes Mia to Jack Rabbit Slim's, a 50s theme diner, and onto oblivion.

The web of tales continues (eventually enclosing all the characters) with Butch (Bruce Willis), a boxer on the way out who is being bought by Marsellus. By taking a dive Butch can ensure a solid future, although events don't quite turn out that way. Connected with the fight are Fabienne (Maria de Medeiros), Butch's girlfriend, and a pair of sadistic hillbilly freaks -- think of Deliverance and you'll get the idea. Throwing a gold watch and a leather clad sex-slave (The Gimp) into the equation, Tarantino produces a gripping and unsettling story of honour, brutality and family history. The circle closes with Vincent and Jules in a diner (yes, that diner), taking breakfast after a hard mornings labour.

Tarantino pulls out all of the stops with Pulp Fiction -- stupendous dialogue, discourses on the meaning of life, flash-backs, weird camera angles, brutal torture and fascinating people. These extended sequences of talking are like a trademark, providing insights into the characters and lulls between the bouts of frenetic violence, which occur in everything that this director touches. However, true to the theme of pulp magazines, these linked stories have no connection with reality and the actors, realising this, play their parts with gusto. It seems churlish to pick Travolta and Jackson as the stars, since everyone is convincing in their portrayals, but these two are great foils to each other and provide an intriguing core to the movie. Combined with a superb soundtrack, which both fits into the action and provides a setting for it, the effect is akin to a 154-minute roller-coaster ride; exhilarating but exhausting. Now I'm certain that everyone reading this review has seen Pulp Fiction but that doesn't matter. See it again. Now.

This film was nominated for review by Kymberlie R. McGuire.

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