“You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?”

Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction doesn’t follow the rules — it makes you forget they existed. Told out of order and bursting with sharp dialogue, absurd violence, and pop culture tangents, this film is less about plot and more about moments. It’s a dance of irony, tension, and existential dread — all wearing a black suit and tie.

At its heart, Pulp Fiction is about characters on the edge: hitmen, gangsters, drifters, and addicts all fumbling for meaning in a godless, stylized version of L.A. Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield (John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson) are hitmen with sharp tongues and shaky morality. Their casual conversations about foot massages and burgers are just as gripping as the shootouts and near-death experiences.

And that’s the genius of it. Tarantino finds profundity in the mundane, and absurdity in the serious. Scenes stretch beyond logic — like the adrenaline shot to the heart, or the dance contest at Jack Rabbit Slim’s — because they’re not about anything. They just are. And yet, by the end, you realize: nothing is wasted.

The nonlinear storytelling doesn’t just mess with time — it redefines impact. A character’s death is undone in the next scene, but not for shock value. It forces you to see them differently, to remember that in life, meaning isn’t found in events — it’s found in how we frame them.

To me, Pulp Fiction is about the illusion of control. These people think they’re running the show, but fate — or “divine intervention,” as Jules calls it — has other plans. It’s a film where bullets miss, lives spiral, and redemption sneaks in through the back door.

It doesn’t hand you a moral. It hands you a Big Kahuna burger and dares you to make sense of it.