Home » April 2009, Cinema and Television

Pulp Fiction? More like Pulp Crap!

1 April 2009 2,513 Views No Comment author: D.J. Bigalke

I'm sick of these motherfucking parodies of my motherfucking movies!

I'm sick of these motherfucking parodies of my motherfucking movies!

Just as The Passion of the Christ was a window to the anti-Semitic side of Mel Gibson, the bloated indulgence that is Pulp Fiction is a window into the misogynistic and racist world view of Quentin Tarantino. Lightning quick dialogue and a nonlinear storyline are used to assuage the nihilistic message. Only the lowliest of addle brained viewers should be taken in by these tricks. Unfortunately, this is not the case. Most viewers eat up this tripe and then have the audacity to ask for second helpings.

The most touching moment of the film occurs at the very beginning when we witness Pumpkin and Honey Bunny exchange a long kiss before robbing a restaurant. We can only assume that Pumpkin is a veiled reference to the incest that these two were obviously born from and regularly take part in, because these two morons are the kinds of people that end up on America’s Dumbest Criminals. They don’t have any plan or strategy; they just decide to rob the place on a whim. The fact that they are a couple suggests that Tarantino sees crime as infecting the family lifestyle. Before, men would be the ones responsible for doing the dirty work, while the women would stay at home and reap the benefits. They were aware of what was going on, but never partook in any devious acts. Now the shift of blame is balanced equally on man and woman. Mother and father. Original sin is not enough for Tarantino. The women need to be as evil as the men. If they aren’t portrayed as being criminals, the women are either sex- or drug-crazed bimbettes.

The most prominently displayed woman in Fiction is Mia Wallace. She’s the boss’ wife and is the most idiotic and weakest portrayal of a woman that Tarantino could imagine. The only reason she’s in the story is because she needs someone to “take care of her” while her husband is away. Heaven forbid a woman is allowed to do anything for herself. She needs to be entertained by a stranger and taken out to eat or else she’ll just starve at home and die of boredom because she can’t figure out the magic box in the kitchen that cooks food or the mysterious talking picture machine. Mia’s brain function is almost as useless as her willpower. After doing enough coke to kill a whale she discovers a mysterious baggy in Vincent’s jacket. Being the retarded little coke head that she is, she promptly cuts a line, apparently the only thing she’s good at, and proceeds to O.D. on heroin. The only thing that saves her from certain death is a man, Vincent.

In order to save her life, Vincent needs to give her a shot of adrenaline, straight to the heart. First, he has to get through her ribcage, though. The shot of adrenaline represents power. Specifically for Mia, since she is our model for women, it represents the power for a woman to live and be independent in a man’s world. The ribcage represents all the obstacles and the hardships that must be overcome before she is allowed to do that. The fact that Vincent, who has a crush on Mia, has to give her the shot of adrenaline shows that Tarantino believes that the only way that a woman can attain this power is with a man’s help, namely by using sex to achieve her goals. I should also point out the fallacy (or phallacy) behind the suggestion that all dates should end with the man sticking something into the woman and releasing juices. There’s more than one way to get her heart beating, Mr. Tarantino.

Vincent is our male model, which is even worse. He is supposed to be a feared hit man, yet is responsible for nearly every bad thing that happens in the film. Despite all his hipness and posturing, he is a loser and the poster child for irritable bowel syndrome. Possibly more disturbing than Tarantino’s apparent fecalphilia is his idea that “the man” and humankind in general are on a self-destructive path caused by nothing else but our own ineptitude. The only thing that ever really solves any of the problems that Vincent creates is the appearance of Winston Wolf. The Wolf, not surprisingly, springs up after Vincent “accidentally” shoots someone in the face while cruising around. All of this happens while discussing divine intervention. In what is quite possibly the most blatant analogy ever, we see God, in the form of Winston Wolf, step in and help. The Wolf, like God, doesn’t actually do anything. He’s just there to take all the credit.

The most horrific part of the movie comes in the story between Butch and Marcellus Wallace. It is here that we witness Tarantino’s view on race. Marcellus is black and is the main boss, alluding to Tarantino’s belief that blacks are just naturally better at being criminals. Butch represents the white man. At the beginning they are enemies. At the end, they are still enemies, but slightly more indifferent towards each other. It’s only through the intervention of Zed that they are able to set aside their differences and fight against the greater evil. Zed, as the only authority figure seen throughout the film, represents the corruption that exists to keep the black community oppressed. Again, horribly obvious symbolism is used as the authority figure ass rapes the black man. Zed’s throbbing cock of injustice continually violates Marcellus’s quivering sphincter of freedom. Butch, being the stronger of the two, big surprise there, is able to free him from bondage. He chooses to sit idly by for a while before deciding to help Marcellus. It’s only after properly flexing his muscles and embracing his white machismo that he is able to attack the oppressor in Zed, and help free Marcellus, the black man, from his captor.

What a waste of a film.

Zero out of Ten Stars

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