I told myself I wouldn’t do this, I told myself I wouldn’t review standard “I love film. I’m a hipster doofus” films like Donnie Darko and Boogie Nights, but here I am, reviewing one of the seminal, subversive, genre forming, iconoclastic and important films of my life, Pulp Fiction, like some kind of cardigan wearing, myspace hairdo having fan boy. But it’s just so good! Tarantino is already a titan of the filmic art, a true maverick (I shudder when using that word. Thanks a lot, Palin.) whose films exude such a passion for film unparalleled since the days of Sergio Leone. For Pulp Fiction, Tarantino scrapbooks his favorite gangster, exploitation, comedy and noir films into an ass kicker of a film that virtually created its own subgenre in the way that Romero did with Night of the Living Dead. We all take for granted T’s amazing casting choices (bar the disappointing Brad Pitt choice in IB), but the way he defibrillated John Travolta’s career from Look Who’s Talking hell should leave him forever grateful. From Bruce Willis to Tim Roth, Sam Jackson to Ving Rhames, and even the minuscule but golden performances by Tarantino favs Harvey Keitel and Steve Buscemi, everyone brings their A game to a stellar script. Uma Thurman steals every show imaginable (par for the course) as Mia, and even Tarantino pulls his weight as Jimmy, recipient of an uncomfortable situation. Pulp Fiction breathed life back into film, made it exciting again, and Tarantino proved, much as Leone proved with Once Upon a Time in the West and his Dollars trilogy, that film genres thought tired, low and even cheap could be made into high art. High and bloody, foul mouthed art. Merci, Mr. T. We couldn’t be more grateful.