When the menace known as the Joker emerges from his mysterious past, he wreaks havoc and chaos on the people of Gotham, the Dark Knight must accept one of the greatest psychological and physical tests of his ability to fight injustice.
Jules Winnfield (Samuel L. Jackson) and Vincent Vega (John Travolta) are two hit men who are out to retrieve a suitcase stolen from their employer, mob boss Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames). Wallace has also asked Vincent to take his wife Mia (Uma Thurman) out a few days later when Wallace himself will be out of town. Butch Coolidge (Bruce Willis) is an aging boxer who is paid by Wallace to lose his fight. The lives of these seemingly unrelated people are woven together comprising of a series of funny, bizarre and uncalled-for incidents. Written by
(at around 1h 12 mins) In the taxi, Butch throws his boxing clothes out a fully-open window, and Esmarelda tosses a butt out her open window. The squealing tires, near-miss as she leaves the alley, and background indicate she's driving fast. But as Butch smokes the cigarette, its smoke drifts slowly through the car, indicating it isn't moving because no wind is coming through the open windows. However, the back projection is heavily stylized in black & white, so the director clearly did not intend this to be a realistic shot. Although the shot may have been intentionally unrealistic, when Butch throws his gloves out the window a "plop" can be clearly heard, indicating no vehicle movement. See more »
Forget it. Too risky. I'm through doing that shit.
You always say that. That same thing every time, "I'm through, never again, too dangerous".
I know that's what I always say. I'm always right, too.
But you forget about it in a day or two.
Yeah, well the days of me forgetting are over, and the days of me remembering have just begun.
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The opening credits end with Produced by Lawrence Bender. Usually movies end opening credits with the Director's credit, however Written and Directed by Quentin Tarantino starts the end credits. See more »
Pulp Fiction, despite borrowing from just about every movie ever made, is the most invigorating cinema experience a filmgoer can ever hope for. Its hodgepodge of violence, mayhem, and generally deviant behavior is an assault on the senses, not to mention political correctness. However, despite all the film's cleverness and style, it hinges on the performance put forth by Samuel L. Jackson as Jules. The fact that he was denied an Oscar is a downright shame. Martin Landau, the best supporting actor winner that year, was terrific and funny in Ed Wood, but Jackson was perhaps the most commanding screen presence in film history as the bible-quoting, godfearing hitman. The last scene in the coffee shop with Tim Roth still sends chills down my spine, no matter how many times I've seen it. Rumors of a prequel involving Jules and Vincent (John Travolta) have been floating around lately. If Quentin Tarantino wishes to regain the fans he lost with the dissapointing (but still pretty good) Jackie Brown, he should get to work right away. I'll be the first in line to see the finished product.
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