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It kept coming up, to the point that I knew I should watch, but I held back, afraid it would be too violent, too extreme. (The same fear kept me away from Trainspotting for a while.)
As with Trainspotting, I felt my movie-watching appetite satisfied in a way that I’m not used to having it satisfied. It had the same roller-coaster quality. It was so compelling to look at and listen to; it was so continually surprising; it was so dad-blasted funny. The way it combined violence and humor was something unique in my experience. That sounds cold-hearted, but it isn’t; nor is Pulp Fiction at all cold-hearted. There’s a strong, if somewhat inchoate, moral center to the proceedings, though it doesn’t look that way to start. When the Bruce Miller character shoots the John Travolta character because a pop tart pops up in the toaster at the wrong moment, it’s as much a loving, satiric take on violence in the movies as it is a fate-driven, quasi-nihilistic moment as much as it is a plea for sympathy for the complexity of the situations of both men.
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