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That part still makes me laugh, and clearly it’s still one of Pulp Fiction’s iconic moments. But while Marvin’s death is usually discussed, if at all, as one of those troubling crossroads where violence and comedy meet, what it signals to me is the moment when Tarantino’s film becomes brilliant. .
Let me add, hastily, that by no stretch do I consider Pulp Fiction to be Tarantino’s best film. It, and Reservoir Dogs previously, haven’t aged as smoothly as I would have liked, but since Pulp Fiction is the film that knocked everyone on their ass, before most of them knew who Tarantino was, it tends (like Paul Thomas Anderson’s Boogie Nights), in my view, to get over-valued. Those opening scenes between John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, for instance, tend to grate on me more than they used to. Not that I think Tarantino has anything to prove – the two Kill Bill films and Inglourious Basterds, not to mention Jackie Brown, have done more to confirm his vast talent for me than any Pulp Fiction-related nostalgia ever could. But I think Pulp Fiction gets a bit of a pass from some people, because they remember what it was like to see it for the first time.
Let me add, hastily, that by no stretch do I consider Pulp Fiction to be Tarantino’s best film. It, and Reservoir Dogs previously, haven’t aged as smoothly as I would have liked, but since Pulp Fiction is the film that knocked everyone on their ass, before most of them knew who Tarantino was, it tends (like Paul Thomas Anderson’s Boogie Nights), in my view, to get over-valued. Those opening scenes between John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, for instance, tend to grate on me more than they used to. Not that I think Tarantino has anything to prove – the two Kill Bill films and Inglourious Basterds, not to mention Jackie Brown, have done more to confirm his vast talent for me than any Pulp Fiction-related nostalgia ever could. But I think Pulp Fiction gets a bit of a pass from some people, because they remember what it was like to see it for the first time.
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Still. Marvin’s head coming apart signals the beginning of the slow reveal of the film’s structure, and that fractured storytelling – much aped, often poorly, since the Pulp Fiction’s release – is still well worth celebrating. The story isn’t randomly jumbled up, and it’s not done so for some arbitrary reason, like it wants to “keep people guessing”. There is that revelatory moment in the diner, while Vincent and Jules are eating and talking, unwinding after the madness they’ve just been through (all that happened before noon!?), when the film repeats Tim Roth’s “Garcon! Coffee!” line, and the audience realizes what’s coming, and that opening with Roth and Amanda Plummer was not just some statement of attitude, but had a real narrative purpose. And we all began to feel giddy – expecting, let’s face it, more hilarious violence – but that’s not what we get. Later, when it’s all over, you start to think: Wait, when does Vincent die? Jules is already out of the picture by that point, isn’t he? He’s left the hitman business. Vincent hasn’t, and now he’s sprawled out in Butch’s bathtub, stitched up the front with his own gun. Huh. It would appear that, in Vincent’s case, the tyranny of evil men has had the Lord’s vengeance laid down up him. Not so Jules.
Still. Marvin’s head coming apart signals the beginning of the slow reveal of the film’s structure, and that fractured storytelling – much aped, often poorly, since the Pulp Fiction’s release – is still well worth celebrating. The story isn’t randomly jumbled up, and it’s not done so for some arbitrary reason, like it wants to “keep people guessing”. There is that revelatory moment in the diner, while Vincent and Jules are eating and talking, unwinding after the madness they’ve just been through (all that happened before noon!?), when the film repeats Tim Roth’s “Garcon! Coffee!” line, and the audience realizes what’s coming, and that opening with Roth and Amanda Plummer was not just some statement of attitude, but had a real narrative purpose. And we all began to feel giddy – expecting, let’s face it, more hilarious violence – but that’s not what we get. Later, when it’s all over, you start to think: Wait, when does Vincent die? Jules is already out of the picture by that point, isn’t he? He’s left the hitman business. Vincent hasn’t, and now he’s sprawled out in Butch’s bathtub, stitched up the front with his own gun. Huh. It would appear that, in Vincent’s case, the tyranny of evil men has had the Lord’s vengeance laid down up him. Not so Jules.
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This could have all been communicated in a linear fashion, but in no way would it carry that same resonance. The Kill Bill films unfold in the same way, with, if anything, even more audacity, but, for many filmgoers of a certain age, Pulp Fiction offered a certain kind of soulfulness in its winding narrative that was particularly unexpected, and still highly valued.
This could have all been communicated in a linear fashion, but in no way would it carry that same resonance. The Kill Bill films unfold in the same way, with, if anything, even more audacity, but, for many filmgoers of a certain age, Pulp Fiction offered a certain kind of soulfulness in its winding narrative that was particularly unexpected, and still highly valued.
