To go back to the beginning, Quentin Tarantino's first movie, Reservoir Dogs, revived an old-chestnut plot: six misfits plan a heist, but their scheme breaks down and fate rushes them to an early violent death. This premise had been worked up a dozen times before in French and American film noirs, like Stanley Kubrick's The Killing. The earlier versions obeyed a ruthlessly tight, naive purity of form, with the actors saying the fewest lines possible, and every gesture blown up to be desperate and grand. Tarantino's characters, in contrast, drove around Los Angeles, nodding to 1970s songs on the radio and delivering monologues. Tarantino, aware that the old story was fondly remembered but drained of life, told it out of order and sprinkled in shallow ironies—on their way to Hell the characters took time out to talk about whether or not to tip a waitress. Often their ramblings seemed to be about the old themes of brotherhood and loyalty, but really they were showcases for Tarantino's skill at writing dialogue.
Review, 3085 words
To read the full text of this piece, please choose one of the following options:
|
If you are already a subscriber to the Review's electronic edition, please sign in: |
To subscribe to the electronic edition, please press the button below. |
To purchase access to this article for $3, please press the button below. |