Pulp fiction (2)

The opening of "Pulp Fiction" doesn't even really feel like an opening, and that's precisely why it succeeds. Rather than the traditional cinematic warm up; slow pans, setting shots, some glimpse of plot. We are thrust in the midst of a dirty, nearly banal conversation. Two individuals, Pumpkin (Tim Roth) and Honey Bunny (Amanda Plummer), sit in a booth of a diner discussing robberies as though they are discussing where to eat. The informality is engaging. It draws us in, not because there are any gunfights or firefights, but because the conversations are so raw, so ordinary. We might be listening in on a couple sitting at the table over there, except the game being played here is crime, cash, and matters of life and death.

What "Quentin Tarantino" does here is trick us. He takes away the veneer of "criminals" and instead presents us with two lovers, drinking coffee, discussing in circles, getting more and more hyped up until they've psyched themselves into robbing the very diner they're at. The pace is measured slow at the beginning, with Pumpkin daydreaming about liquor stores and the risks of robbing banks, and then increases as the discussion gains steam. By the point when Honey Bunny jumps up and yells, "Any of you f***ing pricks move and I'll execute every motherf***ing last one of ya! " we have progressed from toast and coffee to pandemonium in less than five minutes.

It's disconcerting but masterful, a reminder that violence in the world of Tarantino has the potential to erupt at any moment, with no notice. The cinematography is straightforwardly basic. Most of the time, it simply sits with the couple, oscillating between them like a considerate dinner guest. But this reserve is the intention. Tarantino understands that if he remains silent with the camera, the words will bear the burden. We find ourselves ensnared in their cadence, hypnotized into the familiarity of their give-and-take. It’s almost romantic; two people hyping each other up, convincing themselves they’re invincible, sealing their bond with the idea of a shared crime.

Only when the tension hits its peak does the film break out, the diner erupting into panic, and we’re yanked out of the booth and into the madness. Then comes the real masterstroke: the cut. The hold-up scene doesn’t play out. Instead, the screen cuts to black, and "Dick Dale's Misirlou" tears through the speakers. It's loud, quick, and mean, an aural slap in the face. The movie introduces itself; this is not a typical crime film, this is a pop culture fever dream sewn together with violence, music, and irony. The credits roll over that great surf guitar riff, and we catch on that the diner sequence wasn't an opening sequence but a statement of intention.

Tarantino is saying: be prepared for anything. This fractured structure also establishes Pulp Fiction's nonsequential approach to storytelling. We won't learn what becomes of Pumpkin and Honey Bunny until the third act of the movie, so this opening serves as a tease, a cliffhanger that leaves us primed to go over several interconnected storylines. The diner is not merely a location; it's a framing device, a loop that gives unity to the film's sprawling narrative.

When we finally come back to that booth, it's in fresh eyes, fresh context, and the understanding that Tarantino's been toying with time and tension throughout. Thematically, the opening is what Pulp Fiction itself is all about: the clash of the mundane and the violent, the fusion of familiar banter with unexpectedly shocking brutality. Pumpkin and Honey Bunny aren't gangsters or masterminds. Just individuals seeking quick cash, perhaps even excitement. Their banality is what makes them horrific. And that's the genius of Tarantino's intro, a reminder that violence often doesn't appear in a suit with a briefcase. Occasionally it's a pair in a booth, hushed over pancakes, planning something stupid.