(Dir. Danny Turkiewicz, 2024)
The leads are somewhat familiar faces as Jon Rudnitsky was a featured player on Saturday Night Live a decade ago, and Karan Soni plays the Indian taxi driver in the DEADPOOL movies. We are introduced to them in a prologue that is identified with white on black titles as “Pun-Themed Businesses.” This is a Seinfeld-ian exchange over drinks at the 321 Club in Los Angeles, where the duo propose ideas about an oyster bar called “Ah, Shucks,” and a royal-themed oxygen bar called “Air to the Throne.”
Yeah, this opening bit sets the tone – for better or for worse – and we go from there to accompany them to a midnight showing of PULP FICTION at a Tarantino-owned theater, and over burgers after the screening, they hatch the idea for the theft of the film reels, which they plan to sell (“It’s as valuable as gold,” Rudnitsky says).
The constantly quipping duo decide they need a third so they rope in their eye-rolling friend, Elizabeth (Cazzie David), despite the fact that she hates Tarantino (“He is misogynistic, foot-fetished freak, who doesn’t let the women in his films speak”). Then there’s the surprising addition to the caper of Jason Alexander, the only real name in this movie, as the guys’ therapist, who is going through marital problems, and it’s odd to seem him try to match Rudnitsky and Soni’s weird energy in the most un-George Constanza manner he can render.
Now this way this whole deal plays out is really dumb, and feels on-the-fly, improvised, and oddly self-satisfied, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any stupider, boy does it.
This largely happens when an actor (Seager Tennis) playing “Quentin Fuckin’ Tarantino” (that’s how he’s credited) shows up, who is made to look like him with a prosthetic chin, and is portrayed as angrily obnoxious, which reduces who is supposed to be celebrated here into a grotesque caricature.
Now this way this whole deal plays out is really dumb, and feels on-the-fly, improvised, and oddly self-satisfied, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any stupider, boy does it.
This largely happens when an actor (Seager Tennis) playing “Quentin Fuckin’ Tarantino” (that’s how he’s credited) shows up, who is made to look like him with a prosthetic chin, and is portrayed as angrily obnoxious, which reduces who is supposed to be celebrated here into a grotesque caricature.
Okay, I’m tired of writing about the plot. I was pretty baffled, and stupefied by this flick, which has a really short running time of only 78 minutes, even though it’s padded with things like unnecessary tennis, and on overly long dance scene finale. That last part is actually one of the funnier things in the film as the laconic Elizabeth character just stands there unengaged, with her arms folded while everybody around her makes a fool of themselves on the dance floor to Tina Charles’ “I Love to Love.”
You know, actually the film’s soundtrack, which of course riffs on Tarantino’s love of ‘70s soul, is pretty good with its use of Keith Mansfield’s 1969 instrumental “Funky Fanfare,” you know, the snazzy music that was used for the “Our Feature Presentation” title cards with the psychedelic background back in the day.
Thing is, the thought I kept having while watching STEALING PULP FICTION is what the hell is this movie? It’s such a goofy, half-assed endeavor dominated by the smug-ass Rudnitsky, who seems high on his own vibe, and it doesn’t really have anything to say about Tarantino’s masterwork that it can’t even dream of holding a candle too. But it is breezy, and watchable if you are looking for an hour and a half of idiocy, which is the only way I’d ever recommend it.
These guys – writer, director Turkiewicz; Rudnitsky, and Soni – do have some spunk in this junk, and I didn’t walk away disliking them, but damn, whatta really stupidly strange experience this is. I mean, nice try I guess, but how about making a real movie next time?
More later...
