#Mr. orange reservoir dogs movie
“This movie isn’t really about anything,” the Daily News said. Tarantino spells out is the violence,” Julie Salamon wrote in the Wall Street Journal. Nothing around “Reservoir Dogs,” though, has aged quite as badly as its original reviews.
The twenty-fifth anniversary of Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs,” on October 8th, shapes up as an exercise in slightly nervous time travel, like a college reunion, or stumbling on a high-school crush on Facebook.
These days, with few exceptions, the trail of bickering hitmen, wild-card sociopaths, and hyper-articulate drug dealers arguing about the merits of “old” Aerosmith over “new” Aerosmith has gone cold. “I became an adjective sooner than I thought I was going to,” Tarantino noted, in 1994, when infatuation with his work was at its peak and a host of copycat films were in theatres. “He is the single most influential director of his generation,” Peter Bogdanovich said, during an event at MOMA, in 2012, honoring the director, by which time it was customary to add the phrase “for better or worse.” To talk of Tarantino’s influence now is to do so with a wince or small cluck of nostalgia for that period, somewhere between the launch of the Hubble telescope and the impeachment of Bill Clinton, when you could barely find a coffee shop in Southern California that didn’t clatter with the sound of aspiring young screenwriters bashing out talky, violent, blackly comic shoot-’em-ups on their typewriters. Like matching outfits for pop bands, the influence of Quentin Tarantino didn’t make it very far into the new century.
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