Word: blam
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...Then BLAM!, the Wild Bunch hit town. On the festival's final Saturday, John Travolta, Bruce Willis, Samuel L. Jackson, Uma Thurman and other performers from the American thriller Pulp Fiction brought some big-time, macho-and- mayhem, Uzi-in-your-gut star quality to Cannes. Quentin Tarantino, who made the sanguinary Reservoir Dogs, wrote the script and directed the film at a hurtling pace, displaying a steely assurance in his storytelling and a gift for placing scary violence at unexpected moments. When the film was shown, it was as if Tarantino were telling Cannes, "O.K., nap time is over...
...going to touch Erik!" Jose summoned Kitty to the TV room and closed the doors. Said Lyle: "I thought this was the end. I thought they were going inside the TV room to plan to kill us." He ran upstairs to get Erik. Both brothers got their guns, and blam! And blam! again and 13 more times...
...Hong Kong movie, the action-traction Hard Boiled, was basically Die Hard in a hospital. A zillion bad guys are terrorizing the place, and our indestructible cop hero must mow them down, holding a bazooka- size pistol in one hand -- and a newborn child in the other. No problem. Blam! and a villain's blood splatters a maternity-ward window. Boom! and a few more miscreants eat carpet. Surveying the scene, the cop shields the baby's | eyes and says jauntily, "Hey, X-rated action...
...keep on shooting. Blam! Blam! In this year's heralded crop of low-budget films from tyro directors, the outlaw is in. Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs: gangsters pull a heist, then engage in a long therapy session of bitchery and carnage. Tom Kalin's Swoon: those gay cutups of the '20s, Leopold and Loeb, are back, artier and hornier than ever. Stacy Cochran's My New Gun: doctor gives his restless wife a handgun; audience waits for it to go off. Add two other, more seasoned directors of outlaw movies -- Abel Ferrara (Bad Lieutenant) and Hal Hartley (Simple...
Guns have a sort of irresistible black magic about them. A good gun has such lovely heft, a densely sinister weight in the hand. The brain is wired to the trigger finger and fires on impulse. The finger twitches, and -- blam! -- the life across a distance -- poof! -- disintegrates: an existence powdered. The finger did it on a whim. The desacralization of life, a society of emotional disconnection: killing is a kind of dream-sequence video. Conscience is disconnected from trigger finger. Child is disconnected from future. Bullet is ; disconnected from gun muzzle and, once fired, can never be recalled...