So I watched (or at least tried to watch) The Hateful Eight recently. It was. . . not very good. It seems to hope that its hyperactivity will keep it from giving up the ghost, but if you are accustomed to QT’s pacing (which, you know. . .), it doesn’t really work and the movie feels pretty clunky. A couple days later in a dangerous fit of pique I decided I’d try to rinse the taste out by watching Pulp Fiction. In retrospect, I really should have known better.
There is a truly great one hour movie hidden in Pulp Fiction, but the remaining running time is bad, and there sure is a lot of it. I know we sort of agreed to forget the part where Quentin talks to Harry K-Tell, the method actor for like a million years, but I’d say the whole Butch story is just as awful. Bruce Willis is actually pretty good (especially with his expressions, which are the highlights of these sections), but Butch is a truly awful person for whom you should not be rooting, and the. . . events are pretty problematically conveyed. I think that even at the tender age of 18 it occurred to me that I was supposed to be endorsing something with which I didn’t feel very comfortable.
On the plus side, I had forgotten about how genuinely funny the now-infamous foot rub conversation was.
So I watched The China Syndrome last night. It was. . . not particularly good, but like every movie that I watch, it highlighted how lousy movies coming out these days tend to be. It was marvelous, for example, to not have every single dramatic line delivered in front of a screeching orchestral score. I mean, I like musical melodrama as much as the next guy, but if something important is happening, maybe the audience can pick it up from context.
A picture of my dream house: