This is Tarantino pushing himself, and it’s thrilling to watch. It’s almost charming, to watch him draw from Renoir and Resnais (and Truffaut, of course) in the same way he once lustily pilfered from chop-socky schlock. (I say that with love.) He has always been an obsessive catalogist of film history, but he’s painting here with a brush I didn’t know he possessed. (Though obviously, I should have.) A simple scene of Melanie Laurent smoking in a cafe is shot with the erotic fervor Tarantino usually reserves for feet.
Uma Thurman’s feet.
3 years ago • 89 notes