Women are lining up to have Quentin's baby and aspiring filmmakers are standing outside his house waiting to lick his feet, yet "Pulp Fiction" stands out less as the emergence of a great director than the emergence of a promising director who parlayed fame, fortune and opportunity into a really pathetic acting career.
At least in "Reservoir Dogs" young Quentin had the foresight to kill his character off before he opened his mouth. In "Pulp Fiction" we're not so fortunate. As with most films that fall into that elusive category mealy mouthed intellectuals label "postmodernism," this film celebrates style over substance. It may be cute, but let's not call Tarantino Michelangelo just yet. As much as everybody wants to memorize the dialogue and wake up the neighbors by blasting "Jungle Boogie" at two o'clock in the morning, "Pulp Fiction" isn't actually about anything other than being hip.
Tarantino also has a disturbing tendency to objectify things he doesn't understand (in less kind terms, that's called sexism and racism). All his movies are exclusively about men, and frequently minorities are the objects of scorn, violence and derision. Why is Ving Rhames the one to be sodomized and not Bruce Willis? Of course, one could argue that "hey, John Travolta is killed in that movie you bastard, what about that? Huh? Huh? Damn you, you better leave Quentin alone or I swear I'll rip your heart out and feed it to my dog." Well, in response to that, !@#$% you! But think about this: Travolta is killed while reading a newspaper and taking a dump. Most men could only dream about a death so glorious. If that's not evidence of Tarantino's belief in the superiority of the white man, I don't know what is.
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