This Halloween we saw at least three different women dressed as Mia Wallace, Uma Thurman’s dancing, flirting, heroin-addicted, neo-gangster moll from "Pulp Fiction." Maybe it’s anticipation of next year’s "Inglorious Bastards" that’s brought a new wave of nostalgia for the 1994 Quentin Tarantino movie which sent thousands of Reagan babies to film school. Or maybe it’s an attempt to forget last year’s grossly underwhelming "Death Proof." Whatever it is, it’s being felt by more than just those three Mias. Even the American Cinematheque has caught the bug. And the timing is perfect.
It’s been long enough that we can finally savor the film as we first saw it, as an exhilarating and daringly funny cinematic achievement—not as the business card of Tarantino’s personality. We can watch the hip, disengaged interactions between career criminals Jules and Vincent without wondering whether the scene’s influence is Samuel Fuller or Mario Monicelli. We can watch Tarantino himself, as Jimmie, detailing exactly what kind of storage his house is not intended for without rolling our eyes at the writer-director’s desperation for street cred. In a word, we can be innocent again. We can return, briefly, to the breathless excitement of the year independent film invaded the mainstream with a gold watch and a syringe full of adrenaline. We can remember a time before we'd ever heard the words "Little Miss Sunshine."
