I've mentioned most of the standouts before. Actually, I've described the experiences in agonizing detail for nearly all of them:
These movies monopolized months of my life before I'd even seen them, and it was time well spent. Advertising, film journalism, and promotional merchandise kept me in a glassy bubble of wonderment - which sometimes ended up being a better experience than the movie itself. Once such instance in which that was the case was the highly anticipated followup feature to Pulp Fiction: 1997's Jackie Brown.
In November of that year (a month before the movie's theatrical release) Pulp Fiction made its world television premiere - edited for content. Unto itself, that was one of the most exhilarating and bizarre things I've ever witnessed; it was like watching amateur eye surgery for 3 hours. Out of paralyzing curiosity, I endured the entire broadcast, awaiting every curse word and act of violence to see just how this was gonna go. I took three things from it: the first was the obviously fascinating song and dance of hurtful-but-necessary editing and exactly how each adult situation was handled. (They went predictably medieval on its ass.) The second thing was the horrible realization that someone - maybe lotsa people - were seeing it this way for the first time, which made me pity them as much as hating their stupid asses for watching it this way. Even back then I was preoccupied with the notion that folks - strangers - were somehow "doing it wrong." But that's a whole other matter. The third thing - the big thing - was, outta nowhere, during one of the first few commercial breaks, they debuted the 60-second TV spot for the soon-to-be-released Jackie Brown.
I'm pretty sure they didn't give us a heads up because I remember being quite stunned as it played out before my eyes, and I had to adjust my brain in several different angles. But I was accustomed to that - I'd had practice; that's what trailers were like in those days. Some of y'all forgot or maybe weren't there for it, but we didn't have advance notice and push-button capabilities that allowed us as much time needed to brace for impact with the intellectual security that we can immediately watch it again. In those days, whether it was on TV or in the theater, previews would come at you and you'd hafta cast a big enough net to capture the emotional force of them at a moment's notice. And that's exactly what I goddamn did! As soon as that Miramax logo popped up I had a Pavlovian response put in place by the maestro's previous movie. And then there they were: Sam & Bob, sharing dialogue that I couldn't comprehend because my auditory cortex was clogged with adrenaline; i.e. my heartbeat was too loud to hear the shit. But my eyes were young and sharp, so I peered into the quick edits of hundred-dollar bills and snub-nose pistols and the titillating voiceover and my god, it was full of stars!
A gritty Crime Drama packed with A-list actors - it had a very promising familiarity to it. I lived & breathed Reservoir Dogs and Pulp for about 2 years leading up to this moment, so there was a definite eager confidence. I've determined that "expectations" has been largely misinterpreted, as it is too vague; I expected a quality film and not much else. The absence of the now-customary superabundance and accessibility of film trailers aside, it was also a lot harder to come by "spoilers" in those days; I went into it as fresh as a gourmet cup of coffee (all cream, sugar, and expectations aside).
It opened on Christmas Day 1997. I was 14. I'd had no friends, and no family members could be pulled away from the festivities to spend that most sacred holiday at a movie. Even on the following day, my own parents who'd adored Pulp Fiction as much as I, couldn't fit it into their interests or their agenda. I was prepared to go alone, but the local movie theater - my movie theater that I'd frequented for nearly 10 years - had a strict "no admittance" policy re. minors unaccompanied by an adult when it came to the big "R". But the rumor was that the theater in the neighboring town required only verbal consent from a parent or guardian. So, on December 26, my parent or guardian escorted me up to the ticket window of this foreign multiplex and presented the awkward declaration of "this is my child and I'm allowing them entry to this particular feature." And the employee behind the glass was receptive in a way that they seemed well-versed in this arrangement, and I was permitted access into a new theater and what would be a new chapter in my life; for the next 3 or 4 years, as my interests in Cinema began to drift into different areas than those of my parents, I'd attend this new, lenient location, alone, in lieu of the recommendations put in place by the MPAA, to experience firsthand what the remainder of late 90s Film had to offer. Until I reached the legal age of maturity, the process was always the same: cumbersome exchange at the box office, followed by an anthropophobic walk of shame passed the concessions, quickly glancing at the 'Coming Soon' one-sheets, then directly to the safety of my seat - free of the encumbrances of popcorn or people. My world was expanding while simultaneously becoming more intimate.
I watched the movie with an intense scrutiny - maybe too much so. I'm sure a lotta people did - this was a big deal - but speaking for myself, I don't think I'd ever really watched a film trough this color of glasses before; I was studying dialogue, story structure, character development, costumes, music, editing... Y'know, all the stuff that was always important to me, but was always peripheral to the monsters and aliens and dinosaurs and action figures. But that's what Pulp Fiction did -- that's what Quentin did: love it or like it or loathe it, that movie set my generation on a path to seek out and appreciate a different and specific kinda quality - from all movies, sure, but at least from this filmmaker. New movies didn't necessarily need to have "this, this, or this," as long as it had the caliber to absolutely positively kill every motherfucker in the room. Bad films no longer had an excusable excuse.
It was a bizarre, bittersweet feeling not being able to discuss a major movie like this with someone - a feeling I'd just begun to get used to; I suppose we all spend an extra amount of time in our heads when we're 14. But naturally, the question kept coming up - "How was it?" And I could very plainly and honestly say "It was good." No embellishment, no raves, no drooling lust - I found it legitimately good, but I couldn't sell it as the Cinematic Masterpiece I needed it to be, and I couldn't hide that feeling. I also couldn't immediately identify the "why" - why couldn't I recommend this movie with the sincere fervor of something that genuinely moved me? It was a problem that I needed to address for my own peace of mind.
It felt like a minor flaw, but what stayed with me after that initial viewing was, at one point, I was confused by the plot. I'd felt dumb for feeling that, but ultimately therein lied the larger, overall defect of the whole show. I walked away trying to make sense of the endless exposition, as opposed to an overwhelming feeling of euphoria from a piece of modern moviemaking. Adapted from a novel by Elmore Leonard, staying within the Crime genre felt comfortable and recognizable - and while the author's entire body of work had always been a source of Quentin's inspiration, it ended up being the most definable handicap here. For whatever amount of colorful characters, mild violence, and nonlinear plot developments it had, it wasn't a Tarantino story -- thus and so, it really wasn't a Tarantino movie. But the parts that were - the stuff that clearly had his handwriting - were the good parts.
I can't think of any other of his movies that had this much plot. Not even Kill Bill or Basterds stuck to their guns in such a rigid way. Because of this and because of the nature of the story, the overall look of the film comes across like a glossy TV movie. All his flicks are notoriously talky, but when it's his own, original form, it dictates a broader sense of tension - sequences typically culminate into major set pieces of confrontation and violence. He does that as a writer, but also as a director. Jackie Brown is empty of this visual tension because it's not fundamental - the bulk of the dialogue is explaining shit to us, and it's tricky to shoot that in a compelling way. Fortunately, beginning and ending most scenes allows him some of his extreme closeups as a transitional device.
There is great dialogue here - even if it is expository, it's some of the best-written, delivered by some of the best actors. But when the writing and the characters move away from the main plot (the money/legal/double-cross/intrigue stuff) and more towards the subplot of the relationships between these characters, it becomes immaculate. And I suspect that those who champion this as one of his best would typically site that very detail as to why they believe it to be so. The stuff between Louis and Melanie is cute and funny and gets a lot of attention for it. And anytime Sam speaks - whatever it is - is hypnotic. But really, the movie - the whole movie - rests on the few moments between Pam and Robert. That "morning after" scene when Max visits Jackie's apartment for the first time and they have coffee and listen to The Delfonics - that really is the scene, isn't it? It's the one I think of when I think of the movie; whenever I have it on I stop whatever I'm doing and watch. That Moment.
I love how it's shot mostly in profile: this breakfast nook backed up against the wall with this busy pattern that creates this intimate, impoverished-but-domestic setting. This was the welcomed new direction I was craving, and its brevity accentuated its brilliance as much as it soured much of the rest of the film; I just wished it all coulda been more like this. Not to say the entire movie isn't dialogue scenes - because it is - and while they're all handled with a calculated finesse, there's a motif that irritated me from the first viewing on -- whenever "the plot" is discussed, a recurring music cue - pulled directly from the score to Jack Hill's Coffy - switches on as a signal for the audience to pay attention. It's just Funk instrumental stuff and it certainly matches the mood of the movie, but the application always felt clumsy to me. It wasn't until the past few years or so that I felt justified in this otherwise capricious criticism... It was none other than executive producer Harvey Weinstein who took a look at the otherwise-final cut of the film and found all the talking to be tedious. Quentin's solution was to add film score in the only way he knew how and play it underneath the extended stretches of speech to somehow make it more compelling. I'm glad it wasn't Quentin's first choice and I'm happy to not have to blame him.
The studio, the media, everyone tried to sell this as the Tarantino Blaxploitation movie. And then it decidedly wasn't. And then, as time when on and I got older, it decidedly was and is. At 14 I would've loved to see Pam Grier take to the streets with a shotgun and clean up the trash. That would've been pretty wrong and silly and belonged in some other movie - and would've been a superficial, 14-year-old's interpretation of the genre. What this movie ended up being was a kinda hyperrealistic modern version of Blaxploitation - modern in film terms and modern in setting. Jackie's race is as integral to the story as her age & sex, as they all play a part in her motivation. And instead of back alleys and cocktail parties and pimp lairs, we get low-income housing and offices and the Del Amo Mall - and the unspoken gag of "I'm too old for this shit" feels most palpable in the harsh modern reality of that mall.
Quentin's not only insisted that it's not a Blaxploitation flick, but he's also been openly wishy-washy toward the whole movie altogether - sometimes calling is "one of his best" but never truly feeling like it was entirely his. I don't know how much relevance any of that has here, but it does verify some of my own feelings. He's also famously referred to it as his "hangout movie," whereby the true joy of watching and rewatching is to "hang out" with the characters. And while this movie seemed to coin that phrase, I've never really found it to be as such (at least not as much as some of his others). Incidentally, what did become my hangout companion was the soundtrack: sitting alone in my room on dark winter nights, playing Super Mario World to the sounds of "Natural High" and "Street Life" is literally what I think of when I think of this movie - even more than any actual scenes or characters.
And through that, I was able to connect to the film in a different way. Leaning forward in my movie theater seat with my face buried in the screen is not always the correct approach. Sometimes it needs to be more casual. Sometimes it needs multiple viewings. Sometimes it needs 5 or 10 or 20 years. Sometimes it needs trading cards, or posters, or soundtracks. I will say, going to the movies alone to see the gritty kinda-Blaxploitation Crime caper made me feel sorta cool and grown-up. The only other people in the theater were about 4 or 5 older, white men. After the movie, one of them ran into someone they knew coming out of a different show - another man of roughly the same age.
He asked, "What'd you see?"
"Jackie Brown."
"Yeah, any good?"
"Was okay. I just came to see De Niro but he wasn't really in it much."
I remember thinking what a goofy, dullard thing that was to say. Today, I appreciate the honesty of it; that guy didn't read that off of Rotten Tomatoes - he just knew what he wanted and didn't get enough of it.
I feel you, man.
- Paul
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