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Pulp Fiction

Can eleven years really have passed? Quentin Tarantino cultists own it on DVD (or at least VHS), and they've all watched it nineteen times. But there's something special about seeing Pulp Fiction again on the big screen, in the company of your yawping, warped, movie-crazed fellow enthusiasts. Where do you start? With Bruce Willis's strange run-in with kinky sadists in the basement of a pawn shop? How about Harvey Keitel's fastidious cleanup job after that messy shooting in the sedan? Air Force officer Christopher Walken's weird monologue about Vietnam and an heirloom ring secreted in a guy's butt has got to rank pretty high on the list of all-time Tarantiniana, and when John Travolta and Uma Thurman win the dance contest, what can you say? Well, you can say that nothing, absolutely nothing, outpoints hitman Samuel L. Jackson's speech to those quivering welchers trying to choke down hamburgers and malts in their scummy L.A. apartment -- a classic scene laced with biblical hellfire, Jacksonian cool and a couple of very large handguns. Pulp Fictionscreens (when else?) at midnight Saturday, April 30, at the Esquire Theatre, 590 Downing Street. For information, call 303-352-1992.

 
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