Breath of Fresh Air, and Nourishment for the Soul.
John Waters recently produced a countercultural personal manifesto, "Cecille B. Demented," in which he specifically targets two of the most depressiingly bad, yet representative, films of the 90's--"Patch Adams" and "Forrest Gump." But Waters' strained, juvenile ranting, for whatever therapeutic value it contains, is ultimately as lame and ineffectual as the films occasioning his rage. The only effective response to the mind-deadening, sedating Pavlonian formulas that pass for movies these days is a truly fresh, well crafted, yet perpetually playful, cinematic statement like Tarantino's dazzling "Pulp Fiction." Whatever you've heard, it's no "Citizen Kane," but in the context of the films of the day, its style and methods are certainly analagous to Welles' breakthrough film. If any proof of "Pulp Fiction's" singular artistry is needed, just compare it to "Natural Born Killers," Oliver Stone's subsequent, over-the-top attempt to beat Tarantino at his own game. Whereas Tarantino knows how to amuse and delight by using familiar patterns (the variation on the buddy theme, for example) which engage our human interest despite the unexpected contexts, Stone merely distances us from all the mayhem on screen, which generates about as much interest as watching someone else play a video game. But now I'm going to suggest something shocking, especially to all those hip critics and postmodern types who insist "Pulp Fiction" is a statement against meaning and interpretation, that the whole point of the cinematic experience is the experience, that "Pulp Fiction" is a 90's cinematic fun house, a celluloid carnival ride on which you go with the flow and miss the trip if you attempt to question any of the moments comprising its visual rush: The film has a potent message. As retro as Jules looks with his Afro-do, he's also a questioning Samuel, a wayward Old Testament prophet trying to sort out the meaning of justice, righteousness, and grace. When I ask young people about the film, they see Jules' "transition" as proof of a character who changes for the better, who for one moment at the end of the film stops being a self-appointed executor and takes on the role of the protective, forgiving Good Shepherd. Truthfully, I find the foregoing interpretation reductive. What's significant, however, is that many young viewers make an intepretation at all. In a culture that has for all appearances rejected the unexamined life in favor of measuring identity by MacDonald's vs. Burger King consumer tastes, Jules' act of interpretation is all the more noteworthy. And he offers not one, but no less than 4 interpretations of Ezekiel 25:17 before reaching the one that forces him to acknowledge both the thoughtlessness and arrogance of his previous interpretations. It's a moment, perhaps, that does not convince us of its lasting impact. But then again, Jules, like most of us, makes no claim to being "saved": he's in a state of "transition," doing the best he can to be a "good Shepherd" as much of the time as he's able. What more could any of us ask of Jules--or, for that matter, of ourselves? Read more