Reservoir Dogs
“Like a Virgin...” No way anyone could put it better. You have seen it for so many years. You have been exposed to it more than it has been exposed to sunlight. But then, when you feel that you know what it is, when you can make the split between the dark auditorium and the lit ticket counter, you feel something like come and bang your brains out. You begin to feel what it would have been understanding the medium again. And you see difference in the same bloody thing. With a severe disbalance of digestic and non-digestic sounds, your senses are real. And once again, you feel “Like a Virgin.”
Mr. Brown made the whole point clear at the beginning. He told his story, no one listened, they argued about tipping and not tipping, Mr. White told Mr. Blonde that he could only shoot him in his dreams, so that then he could get up and apologize to him. Oh baby, is it me you’re looking for?
They then walk off to attend to pending matters. And then foul it up. Not before the Radio blasts its way through one of the most stylish credits ever made.
Oh, it saves you the gore of the heist, but it takes you to things grosser than just bullet sprays. And you also have the most gruesome scene in cinematic history. But even that is done with élan. Imagine picking up someone cut ear, talk into it and then check for reception.
And the shots that crackle through the songs playing on the jukebox, the sudden realisation of something that we already know, that weird sense of amazement and self-loathing, the wall of disbelief, willingly at that – all just crack you up.
“Like a Virgin...” No way anyone could put it better. You have seen it for so many years. You have been exposed to it more than it has been exposed to sunlight. But then, when you feel that you know what it is, when you can make the split between the dark auditorium and the lit ticket counter, you feel something like come and bang your brains out. You begin to feel what it would have been understanding the medium again. And you see difference in the same bloody thing. With a severe disbalance of digestic and non-digestic sounds, your senses are real. And once again, you feel “Like a Virgin.”
Mr. Brown made the whole point clear at the beginning. He told his story, no one listened, they argued about tipping and not tipping, Mr. White told Mr. Blonde that he could only shoot him in his dreams, so that then he could get up and apologize to him. Oh baby, is it me you’re looking for?
They then walk off to attend to pending matters. And then foul it up. Not before the Radio blasts its way through one of the most stylish credits ever made.
Oh, it saves you the gore of the heist, but it takes you to things grosser than just bullet sprays. And you also have the most gruesome scene in cinematic history. But even that is done with élan. Imagine picking up someone cut ear, talk into it and then check for reception.
And the shots that crackle through the songs playing on the jukebox, the sudden realisation of something that we already know, that weird sense of amazement and self-loathing, the wall of disbelief, willingly at that – all just crack you up.
In small things always come the best packages. Thank the Lord for restrained monies at times. Everything starts to fit. And the starkness itself becomes the largest virtue of the unit.
And then there is Michael Madsen. And then there is Steve Buscemi. And then there is Harvey Keitel. All three dominating the screen, without seeming to lose their figure of speech in between.
Quentin Tarantino brought forth style. A different kind of style. A style that you just want to watch. So let’s not even try to talk about it. It is the speechless kind of style. Good.
I’d dub it the watershed of a new cinematic experiment. A new movement. Something that had to have inspired filmmakers beyond that point. It had too, however much anyone may deny any involvement. Be it the dialogues, the sound, the camera, or just the whole feeling.
Feel new. Watch the movie!
