Pulp Fiction

"I’m Winston Wolf. I solve problems." Quentin Tarantino's second film is the main cult movie of the 90s. This would be enough to describe it, however, the film incorporates myriad other definitions, didactic commentaries, improvised reviews from its audience, increasingly nourished and ready to make it a symbol, an altar on which new fans immolate their cinematographic passion. Pulp Fiction is a symbol, and it puts on the field an overflowing imaginary – that of comics “restricted to an adult audience”, as they write on the covers, combined with the atmosphere of gangster movies of the ’30s and an incredible dialogical pregnancy, because (fortunately) it is not enough to fill the sentences with bad words and incitement to delinquency to get the Tarantino's Spaghetti-drammat. The film goes beyond the common interlocking structure, son of Kubrick's deconstruction, and segments the viewer's gaze like a prism segments light. It disorientates, of course, but it does so carefully, without losing the thread or boring or even worse irritating. In short, we are dealing with a melting pot, with the amalgamation of many elements of the undervalued mass culture. The story is labyrinthine and full of pauses and flashbacks, but it is also accurate and never, never entrusted to chance.