Sunday, 12 January 2014

Woeful Misinterpretation: Pulp Fiction

John Travolta (here playing a small time gangster named Vincent), after displaying some alarming dance moves with Uma Thurman, is shot. Several times. His unfortunate weakness of going to the toilet at precisely the wrong time (which bizarrely is a common occurrence throughout the film) has finally cost him his life. Well, he did leave his massive gun in the kitchen, so I didn't have much sympathy.
But suddenly he is back with  Samuel L. Jackson, and for some reason they seem to be harassing teenagers again. And these teenagers look remarkably like the teenagers they harassed at start of the film. Do Jackson and Travolta really not like these adolescents? Don't they have anything better to do? Is Vincent's return simply Tarantino sticking two fingers up to common sense, in an ironic, postmodern way? What is happening?
By the end of the film I realised something was amiss, and so Tarantino's jumbled chronology had to be explained to me carefully and slowly. So John Travolta was dead, is dead, will now forever be dead at the hands of an insufferable Bruce Willis. It was certainly a blow. And the reason Samuel L. Jackson is absent during much of the film is because he's wandering the Earth, like Cain, after finding God. And rather than the triumphant final scene with the two mobsters triumphantly outwitting the pair of truly awful armed robbers, it ends with Bruce Willis escaping with his dreadful girlfriend and the Big Boss Man bemoaning his sore bottom.

At this point I burst into tears. Damn you Quentin, for pulling the rug of my happy ending from under my gullible feet.

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