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                                by Owen Gleiberman
 

         From its opening frames, Quentin Tarantino's  wild, shocking, impassioned, zigzaggy, rudely hilarious crime thriller
is more sheer fun than a great movie has any right to be. It's as packed with pleasures as a toy store for adults, and the           pleasures are right there on the surface. Just think of Uma Thurman's gimlet-eyed moll doing a coked-up dance of eternal-adolescent rapture to "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon"; of Bruce Willis' scruffy-noble palooka escaping an S&M torture den, and then pausing to pick the perfect weapon (the chainsaw no, the samurai sword!) so that he can go back and save the man who'd sworn to kill him; of John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, as the two most eloquent hit men in history,      transforming their workaday discussions of foot massages and Parisian Big Macs into goofily irreverent moral debates-mental cross fire for the age of pop. For two and a half hours, Tarantino dedicates all his energies as a filmmaker to keeping you blissfully entertained. Yet it's his instincts as an artist that make Pulp Fiction take up permanent residence in your imagination. In a brilliant act of cinematic time juggling, Tarantino kills off one of  his main characters, only to confront us, in the end, with the stubborn reality of his existence-a structural coup that becomes a kind of sleight-of-hand resurrection. In Pulp Fiction, what
Tarantino has resurrected is the primal joy of American moviemaking.