It is October of 1994.
Nelson Mandela visited the United States. Pink Floyd completed their final tour. An American Eagle ATR-72 crashes in Indiana, killing 68 people. Michael Jordan is setting career highs in 3-point attempts.
But the big noteworthy event around our house? According to the film previews intermingled with commercials for Dodge Neons and Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, John Travolta was “doing another dancing movie!” Mom and Grandma were stoked. We were going to the theater and see it even.
And what was this highly anticipated film????
PULP FICTION.
I am thirteen years old.
Yeaaaahhhhhhh…..
Let me paint a little family portrait for you here:
My mother and my grandmother are good examples of all American god-fearing women. The type of women who decorated in big florals and enjoy Lifetime movies. Grandma baked apple pies with fruit picked from her own tree. My mother watched televised dog shows and collected tiny tea sets.
Me? I am a moody junior high kid who recently adopted black as a signature color. I was so shy that my mother would still have to order for me at restaurants. I had recently watched my first two horror films at a friend’s house, which was huge for me because my mom was NOT into that stuff at all. I often spent my days reading Stephen King novels and watching “Days of Our Lives” at Grandma’s house while my mother was at work. It was the summer that Marlena was possessed by the devil and OJ Simpson’s infamous white Bronco police chase interrupted regularly scheduled television programming. I was reading “Gerald’s Game” that day. I shouldn’t have been reading that at thirteen. Ace of Base and Boyz II Men are dominating radio airwaves, but I had discovered Danzig, Nine Inch Nails, and Soundgarden (1994 was an absolutely stellar year for alternative music. Google the top albums of that year. You’ll agree).
Or the condensed version of me back then? Little baby goth wannabe.
Why did they think it was a “dancing movie?” Because they show bits of the dance scene with Vincent Vega and Mia Wallace at Jack Rabbit Slim’s. Travolta’s last “dancing movie” was 11 years prior, so they were stoked.
Now I have told this story a billion times, but today I decided to look up the previews that would have aired on network television. I even looked up the trailers that would have ran in the theaters. Those snippits of the dance scene are blink-and-miss-it short in every single one I found on YouTube.
So yeah, your guess is as good as mine on that one as to where they got that it was a damn dancing movie.
It’s weird how I can remember that the thirty years ago the theater for the matinee we went to wasn’t super busy but I can’t remember what I had for dinner two nights ago. I can also tell you the exact details of the outfit I was wearing when I met my husband in 2013, but that’s clearly not relevant at the moment.
The beginning scene with Hunny Bunny and Pumpkin discussing robbing the coffee shop seems fine enough. I’ve seen mildly violent stuff on plenty of prime time shows, no big deal. But then the profanity starts. I wasn’t raised Puritan or anything, I’d heard every word in the book, but my mother and grandmother weren’t big cussers at all. It still startles me if Grandma uses the word “ass” and I’ve known her for almost 44 years now. I’d not seen any films with an excessive amount of cussing at this point. By the third or fourth time that Pumpkin says “fuck,” I decide to start counting how many times they say it throughout the film. I got bored with that round the time I got to about 82. A quick Google search will tell you that they say it 265 times, and that averages out to about two fucks a minute. So yeah, that’s a fuckin’ lotta fucks, friends.
30 some-odd f-bombs and probably at least 4 deaths in, mom and grandma are doing the side-eye bit back and forth which translates to “Oh, goodness. I think we have made a mistake here with our entertainment choices especially with a child in tow,” or more realistically, “Oh, shit! What have we done?”
The side-eye quickly escalates to whispers of “Should we go? We should go.”
I was reminded of this earlier this year as I was seated by two octogenarians who got free tickets to a stand up comedian they’d never heard of. Turns out Pete Davidson telling butt stuff jokes wasn’t exactly their cup of Metamucil.
Speaking of butt stuff; the infamous “Bring out the gimp!” scene in the pawn shop eventually comes on. You know the one. Yeah, THAT one. At this point, they ask me with some mild intensity, “Gina, do you want to leave?” I shrug and and reply with, “We’ve made it this far. Might as well see the end of it.”
That’s not even a deliberate butt pun. I wasn’t hardwired to throw out dad jokes as a kid. That shit just comes out of me now without thinking. See? I did it again.
There is nothing like watching Ving Rhames being subjected to simulated anal rape by a hillbilly with your mother and your grandmother when you’re only 13, though I suppose that could be awkward at any age.
Yes, we stayed til the end of the film. Baby’s First Big-Big Kid Movie. That was 30 years ago this week. Grandma’s still around. She’s just shy of 94 now. You know damn good and well that I still give her hell about our fun family film day (and yes, she knows I am telling you this story).
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