Pulp Fiction is back on Netflix, and there’s not much I can say about the film that you don’t already know aside from the fact that it’s perfect. Say what you want about Quentin Tarantino, but you can’t deny the influence this film has had on pop culture or how many cheap imitations followed its success. Pulp Fiction isn’t just a film, because it was so ahead of its time in 1994 that it basically became its own genre.
Films from the late 90s and early aughts, like 8 Heads in a Duffel Bag, Very Bad Things, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Boondock Saints, and Snatch all try to replicate its charm. They’re solid flicks in their own right but fail to fully tap into the energy Tarantino already brought to the table with Pulp Fiction. And let’s not forget the legendary Season 7 Simpsons episode, “22 Short Films About Springfield,” which wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Tarantino’s most memorable film.
Non-Linear Storytelling Without Pretension
It goes without question that Pulp Fiction popularized non-linear storytelling, but it’s one of the few films that does it without that “you need to be smart to watch this” vibe. Memento has its charm, but I have to be in the mood for its cerebral delivery. 2017’s Shimmer Lake is a fantastic neo-noir crime comedy, but it hinges on a big reveal that results in diminished returns on repeat viewings. Pulp Fiction hits that sweet spot because it tells three interconnected stories across seven segments that are easy enough to piece together chronologically, but also work as standalone vignettes thanks to its next level dialogue between its principal characters.
The best part of Pulp Fiction isn’t necessarily the structure, but how authentic the dialogue feels because Tarantino treats extraordinary, absurd moments as just another day for the characters we follow. Vincent Vega (John Travolta) and Jules Winnfield (Samuel L. Jackson) shooting the breeze about everyday things like fast food, foot massages, the battle between good and evil, and how good the gourmet coffee is while they’re trying to make a corpse disappear with the help of Harvey Keitel’s Winston Wolfe is what I always come back for.
Mia Wallace’s (Uma Thurman) time with Vincent, culminating in the corniest tomato joke you’ve ever heard, pays off perfectly after the brutal overdose scene that happens moments before. And don’t even get me started on Butch’s (Bruce Willis) exchanges with Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames) after their nasty run in with Maynard, Zed, and whatever the guy in leather is supposed to be. Every insane scenario in Pulp Fiction stays grounded because every character acts like an actual human.
Big Kahuna Burger With A Side Of MacGuffin
Most importantly, Pulp Fiction drives its storytelling through the use of a MacGuffin: what’s inside Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase? The world may never know, and Quentin Tarantino doesn’t want you to know. He understands that as soon as he tells his audience what Vincent and Jules are transporting, the magic is gone. Half the fun is not knowing, because how else will you get ripped to shreds on Reddit after suggesting it might be Marcellus’ soul, using the Bandaid on the back of his neck as your evidence for how it was extracted from his body?
At the end of the day, it doesn’t even matter what’s in the briefcase because we still get Christopher Walken’s fantastically weird monologue about Butch’s prized gold watch and its infamous origin story involving several men’s asses. We learn that Quarter Pounders with Cheese are called a Royale with Cheese in Europe thanks to Vincent, which is brilliantly offset by Jules’ poetic incantations of Ezekiel 25:17 right before he’s about to execute somebody.
Seriously, what’s not to love about Pulp Fiction? It’s highly quotable, can be watched passively or actively depending on the day you’re having, and it’s equal parts horrifying and hilarious. Countless films have tried to replicate it with varying degrees of success. If you’re looking for the real deal, though, Pulp Fiction is back on Netflix, and you should probably go stream it right now.
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