Breathless

bohemea:

Uma Thurman - Pulp Fiction Promo, 1994

“I said GOT Damn!”

Mia Wallace was the first on-screen babe I ever was electrified by.  I mean, Alicia Silverstone was up there too, but she was a teeny-bopper.  Mia Wallace is a fucking woman…a gun toting, coke snorting, Al Green dancing hot piece of cunt.

My father was working at Disney (which owned Miramax at the time) and he did everything in his power to keep me from seeing this at the age of 12.  He kept the VHS screener under lock and key.  Luckily, I’m smart as a whip and went to a friend’s house whose parents didn’t give a fuck if we saw a man getting anal-raped, or Mia Wallace having Adrenaline shot into her heart, or even Travolta shooting heroine (which, combined with the soundtrack, makes for one of the best visual/audio combos since the talkies were invented). I still remember the look on my Dad’s face when I told him I saw it.  And don’t get me wrong, my Dad is gangsta…he introduced me to T2: Judgement Day when I was in Kindergarten.

This movie had such a profound effect on me, in oh so many ways: I came out to Miserlou at my Bar-Mitzvah, I wanted to be Vincent Vega, and for some reason, this movie set the standard for which all future movies would be judged.  Fun fact: QT has a major foot fetish, for Uma in particular, and that’s why her feet are all over Pulp Fiction (in the scene where Vince picks her up, we focus on her feet, she arches one behind the other and says “let’s go”) and all over Kill Bill.  Perhaps this is why I am aroused by the site of a schtupable babe with pretty feet nowadays. Either way…Mia Wallace, you, Ali McGraw in Love Story, and Elaine Robinson in The Graduate are the sole reason I have grown to love (women) of cinema.  You’re the reason I died and went to heaven, (or hell), to work in Hollywood. 

To this day, Pulp Fiction remains legendary, not only because its content was brilliant, but also because it was the first indie-movie to reach the $100 million dollar mark (calculated in Box office receipts).  

Lemme drop some knowledge on you: this movie is how Quentin Tarantino went from video store dorkus malorkus to the Mickey Mouse of Miramax (he’s really their mascot — not for Miramax anymore, because Disney dropped them like Harvey drops a tuna sando after he tried to distribute Faren-9/11, but QT is now the only thing keeping The Weinstein Co afloat…which will either be back in biz, or bankrupt, pending what happens with Inglorious Basterds).  They can’t market/distribute any other movies until they see what happens with Basterds. 

Can’t believe this movie is 15 years old…

Thanks, Dad.  Thanks for driving through the LA Riots to acquire this movie for The Walt Disney Company when I was 6 years old, and thanks for making me the coolest kid in my 1st grade class cause you let the class Brownie troop be the “female test audience.”

Love you.

moviesinframes:

Saturday Night Fever, 1977 (dir. John Badham)

“My pussy fingah!”

BOOM! Proof!

Click the link below to have your mind blown.  Been watching this on bootleg crap for months…it’s finally high-rez.