Reservoir Dogs turns 25 this year. That doesn’t seem right.
I wasn’t old enough to remember its initial release, mind you– by the time I made my inevitable coming-of-Tarantino-age in high school, the world was midway through the lull between Jackie Brown and Kill Bill. Reservoir Dogs had already been fully canonized, both within its creator’s oeuvre and in indie film culture at large. But it still felt contemporary, the standard-bearer for effortless indie cool. By ushering in the ‘90s wave of mainstream-arthouse cinema, it was the face of youth, of the scrappy video store clerk taking on the titans of Hollywood and winning. Now Tarantino is a middle-aged Oscar winner, and his audacious debut is older than most of K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the Seventies were at the time of its release. Since then, Reservoir Dogs has spawned a veritable subgenre of talky cheap-suit thrillers, and filled wallspace in countless freshman dorm rooms. But how does it hold up– you know, as a movie?
Interestingly. When most people hear the name “Tarantino,” Reservoir Dogs is almost certainly a big part of the image conjured: wiry gangsters in black suits and skinny ties, alternately gabbing about pop bullshit or dramatically bleeding to death. But what’s fascinating, in light of the director’s subsequent body of work, is how atypical it feels. Beginning with Pulp Fiction and continuing through his most recent work, each of Tarantino’s films feels almost lush in its meticulous construction of dolly shots and lovingly curated references. Reservoir Dogs, on the other hand, is scrappy and rough-edged. The majority of the camerawork is handheld, and the dialogue, while unmistakably its writer’s creation, is miked more like a documentary of a play rehearsal. The references are there– most infamously, Tarantino largely borrows the plot from Ringo Lam’s City on Fire, with additional sources ranging from Jean-Luc Godard’s Band of Outsiders to Larry Cohen’s Q: The Winged Serpent— but unlike later features he never hangs a lampshade on them, instead weaving them into the plot. The most bravado set piece of the film (with the exception, of course, of that scene) centers entirely around a character reciting a shaggy-dog story about a nonexistent drug deal. For a film whose initial reviews invariably included the word “flashy,” it’s surprisingly low-key.
Tarantino’s signature tool, of course, is his dialogue, but his real gift is casting and directing his actors to make it sound natural. With the exception of the director himself, it’s quite possible that there isn’t a single bad performance in a Tarantino film (and even Quentin is okay in this one, essentially playing himself for one scene and then dying). Michael Madsen, for instance, has made a career of playing enjoyable heavies in disposable thrillers, but here and in Kill Bill (and, to a lesser extent, The Hateful Eight) we catch a glimpse of a universe where he’s Marlon Brando. With his performance in this film, Steve Buscemi officially became Steve Buscemi, and Harvey Keitel (whose enthusiasm, by all accounts, got the film made) turns in another effectively tortured performance. And while Tim Roth’s accent is decidedly dicey, he ultimately turns in the most nuanced performance; in the climactic recreation of the central getaway, his silence and facial tics speak volumes more than any monologue about pop lyrics or tipping.
Of course, when a movie achieves omnipresence, it’s tough to see it outside of its cultural space. As with the best of Monty Python, much of the film’s humor and style has been adopted and endlessly parroted by hordes of teenagers who see it as a shortcut to actual personality or coolness. And even within the context of the film, the characters’ macho posturing (and, in particular, their casual racism) hasn’t aged especially well. But there’s also no denying the infectious enthusiasm of the endeavor: the dialogue still pops, and even after countless viewings, the story still compels.
Put another way: upon viewing Reservoir Dogs for the first time, my girlfriend turned to me and asked, “Is this why you always say ‘Come on ramblers, let’s get rambling?’” It is, of course, but until that moment I don’t think I realized how often I say that in day-to-day conversation. Reservoir Dogs sticks with you, and even once the initial adolescent thrill has worn off, it never quite leaves your system. I’m hungry. Let’s get a taco.
Reservoir Dogs
1992
dir. Quentin Tarantino
99 min
Screens Tuesday, 8/15 & Wednesday, 8/16 @ Coolidge Corner Theatre
Brand new 35mm print!