With Pulp Fiction (1994), Quentin Tarantino continued to define his auteur style, experimenting with unconventional approaches to narrative construction. His redefinition of the crime film through non-chronology and blurring of genres also marks the film out as a prime example of many aspects of postmodernism.

One of the most recognisable features of Pulp Fiction is its episodic, non-chronological narrative. Tarantino had already explored this approach in Reservoir Dogs, and it has since become a feature of man of his films. A key effect of this is to subvert the traditional cause and effect narrative. Approximately two-thirds into the film we see Vincent gunned down by Butch, who discovers him in his apartment. The lingering medium shot of Vincent’s motionless body, with dead eyes staring and blood streaking the walls, seems to invite an emotional response to his death, and in any other film the killing of a main character in such a shocking way would signal a turning point in the narrative, however Tarantino immediately shifts our attention elsewhere, on to Butch and Marsellus’ encounter with the rednecks. The next thing we know Vincent is back on screen with Jules, in a return to their first scene, the early morning apartment hit. This playfulness and irreverence reflects the postmodernist tendency to reject an overarching metanarrative; apparently significant plot points are rendered moot by the constant shifting of time and perspective. In doing so Tarantino abandons cause and effect, forcing the spectator to relinquish previously held notions of narrative.

Similarly, Tarantino frequently blurs and subverts a variety of genres, often combining them to create unusual or unexpected effects and responses. Mia’s overdose scene is a case in point – Vincent’s monologue about loyalty (shot from a signature low angle mirror shot, and developing the ongoing jokey motif about Vincent and bathrooms) unfolds an alternative narrative from the one we see developing in the living room. The joke is on Vincent, as only the spectator is aware of the turn events have taken in the neighbouring room. Vincent’s shock is simulated for the audience through a hard cut to the static close up on Mia’s bloodied, vomit-covered face, as we hear but don’t see Vince emerging from the bathroom. However this shock is itself quickly subverted through the almost slapstick physicality evident after they arrive at Lance’s house. The two-shot looking up at Lance and Vincent as they prepare the adrenaline shot creates unexpected humour through their bickering and ineptitude, subtly referencing tropes of the buddy movie. Even the mise–en-scene hints at the joke Tarantino is playing on his viewers: the stack of board games in the living room includes Risk and Operation; the close up on the shot in Vince’s hand is a clear nod to the ubiquitous knife-wielding killer of the 80s slasher genre. Further demonstrating the rejection of metanarrative, this ricocheting between genres also relies on the audience’s recognition of intertextual references, both explicit and subtextual. In combining apparently opposing impulses – disgust or horror with humour – Tarantino can be seen to employ postmodernist bricolage, drawing together varying and disparate components to create a new and irreverent style all his own.

A key component to these narrative approaches, and perhaps the most recognisable feature of Tarantino’s style, is his approach to dialogue. His films are saturated in speech, and his approach establishes clear patterns – joining the conversation in media res, with frequent pop culture references, he keeps the audience guessing, sometimes for several minutes, before gradually making the situation and characters clear. The film starts with two conversations – Pumpkin/Honeybunny in the diner, and Jules/Vincent in the car. Both follow the pattern identified above, and are shot in extended long takes, utilising simple two shots and shot-reverse-shot sequences to train our focus on the dialogue. This is itself counterintuitive, as the conversations (e.g. on the differences between McDonald’s in LA vs Amsterdam) clearly hold no overall narrative significance, however they do serve to build identification with the characters. These mundane conversations seem so familiar that they play on the idea of hyperreality; the fictional almost seems more real than reality itself. We can’t help but like and align with these characters, making it all the more surprising when their true identities – as unhinged robbers (Honeybunny) or coldblooded gangsters (Jules Vincent) – are finally revealed.