I have to admit it. When I heard the
infamous new Quentin Tarantino flick was storming the box office
this past weekend, a sense of dread surged through my little
girly-girl heart. Really, it’s not the movie itself that
frightens me, but rather the circumstances under which I will
inevitably be forced to watch it.

Janna Hutz

It all started about a year and a half ago. After my dear boy
and I celebrated our one-year anniversary together (yes, this is
the one traditionally girly thing that I do take seriously) with a
nice dinner and dancing, he suggested we curl up and watch a movie.
Now, a movie is supposed to be a nice way to end an evening at
home, so of course I agreed. But he returned from his room
brandishing a copy of “Pulp Fiction,” which he was
extremely excited to share.

I don’t know how many of you have actually seen
“Pulp Fiction,” but as it turns out, it is not exactly
what one would call a happy, lovey-dovey film. I wasn’t so
much aware of this before allowing him to usurp my … er, I
mean, our … romantic night with it. As most women will
concur, watching a man being raped, a needle jammed into a
woman’s heart and anything to do with Christopher Walken is
not, in any way, sexy. In fact, it turns out that Quentin Tarantino
is quite possibly the bane of romances existence, which I’m
fairly sure he does not mind.

Rather than spending our special day with cuddles and smooches,
we ended up on opposite ends of the couch, arguing the many reasons
why a movie like “Pulp Fiction” was a) not an
appropriate choice for the occasion and b) why I have decided it is
one of the worst works I have ever seen. Had it not been for Samuel
L. Jackson and his aura of coolness, it would have been completely
intolerable. But, I won’t delve into said reasons just now as
I don’t have the space to fully explain its
grotesqueness.

Instead of accepting my dislike for the movie, my beloved
decided to start a subtle crusade to make me enjoy the Quentin
style. On the next romantic evening we planned together, merely a
quiet break from the hubbub of school, work and other stressors, he
snagged his chance to bring home “Jackie Brown” for our
viewing enjoyment. But, after spending two hours watching the damn
thing, he grudgingly admitted it was hardly worthwhile evidence; in
short, it was terribly boring and, again, did not result in any
snuggles.

Finally, he found his last opportunity to prove me wrong. I had
just forgiven him for some silly fight we’d had the night
before, and he suggested we watch a movie as a means for
reconciliation. I sent him to the video store … alone. Bad
idea. This time, he held up a copy of “Reservoir Dogs,”
and the tension immediately started to rise. Seeing a man’s
ear lobbed off and gasoline poured all over him isn’t really
supposed to elicit loving feelings from the audience, so I’m
still not positive why my beloved believed so strongly in its
healing powers. Needless to say, he had an early night after that
episode.

I preface this section with the explanation that I do not
support the notion of Sweetest Day or Sweetheart’s Day or
whatever it’s called. I understand that it has not only been
taken over by the Hallmark Corp., it is a Hallmark creation. Yet,
when I mentioned I would be busy this Saturday, he said, “So
you don’t want to spend Sweetest Day with me?”
I’m sure now he was only joking, but at the time, I thought
it might really be an important event for him and I delighted in
the idea that he was interested, on his own accord, in celebrating
a romantic day, even if it was a commercial construction.

Since we were both busy preparing for midterms and fulfilling
family obligations, we had only a limited time to spend together.
So what does he suggest to do? Go see “Kill Bill,”
deemed the most violent movie ever made in some critics’
opinions. Thankfully, my reaction this time was enough to prove I
am not about to magically change my mind in regards to
Quentin’s films, and we were spared the notorious discussion
at least for now.

It’s not that I require some stereotypical, teenybopper
type romance flick to satisfy my girly needs. Actually, “Save
the Last Dance” made me want to retch, and anything with
Mandy Moore elicits a similar response. I’d much prefer an
“Amélie,” “When Harry Met Sally” or
even anything along the lines of “Raising Arizona.” You
see, strangely enough, most girls favor cute and funny to violent
and disturbing when on a date. It’s just how we’re
programmed, I guess.

Perhaps it’s not that I don’t like Quentin’s
movies or even Quentin himself, though at the very least, I wish
he’d stop writing himself into the script. (He’s really
a terrible actor.) Perhaps they just don’t congeal with the
circumstances under which I watched them. Regardless of the cause,
this crazy crusade must end before this obsession with Quentin
kills any more of my … a hem, our … special days.

— Niamh’s sweetest, Jason, is still looking for
someone to see “Kill Bill: Vol. 1” with.  Help her
out and go with him. Jason can be reached at
jasoner@umich.edu.

 

 

 

 

 

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