Pink, who, as he demonstrated with his waitress spiel, is the ultimate realist, and who isn't the least bit muddled about whether he is or is not in a movie. (Would Cagney ever back down?) The one exception is Mr. Because everybody's so tough, nobody can afford to back down.
Naturally, what this guarantees is that a bunch of people die.
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They're each actors, with stage names and everything, playing out their fantasy of what their favorite movie hero - Dirty Harry, Jimmy Cagney, Lee Marvin - might do under similar circumstances. One of the writer-director's main comparisons is the difference between a crime movie and real crime, and how the movie reality begins to take over. Like David Mamet, whose comic-book street-talk Tarantino's most resembles, he's got a keen sense of the rhythms of the lingo, the BS, role-playing and poker-faced bravado. Tarantino, who's a product of the Sundance Institute's Director's Workshop, does a righteous job for a first-time director of sketching in the atmospherics of this small-time desperado universe. And, hey, what's the rush? Nobody ever dies of a belly wound anyway. Clearly, they can't take Orange to a hospital he might be traced back to the job and to them. Orange never does make it up off that cold cement floor, but the debate over who's the rat and what the hell they're going to do next never flags. This is part of the film's dark, deadpan sense of humor. Orange lies bleeding to death on the floor. White arrives and offers his ideas, while, as they jaw and recomb their hair, Mr. Pink set the paranoid mood of the film when they slink back to their meeting place and start speculating on what went wrong. Orange, who's drenched in blood from a shot to the gut, and Mr. Orange (Tim Roth), Nice Guy Eddie (Chris Penn) and the others on his theory of why not to tip a waitress, the movie takes place in the panic that sets in after the heist goes belly up. Pink (Steve Buscemi) expounds for the benefit of Mr. With the exception of a masterfully rambling opening gabfest, in which Mr. Blonde (Michael Madsen), who's fresh out of the slammer, starts blasting away - any one of them could have turned Judas. That way, when the job goes sour - as it does when the cops, as if on schedule, show up and Mr. Nobody knows anybody, so nobody trusts anybody. His plan is supposed to encourage trust, but in fact it has the opposite effect. This way, Joe figures, nobody can rat out nobody else.
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One job, and they scatter to the winds, knowing each other only by their gang code names. Joe (Lawrence Tierney), the sting's boss, has made a special point to hire each member of this urban wild bunch for a one-shot deal. The temporary nature of the team is important. It's brutal, it's funny and you won't forget it. The movie, which zeros in on the anatomy of a diamond heist, and, beyond that, the flimsy notion of honor among a temporarily assembled gang of Los Angeles thieves, is as caustic as battery acid. If Quentin Tarantino's gritty, bone-chilling, powerfully violent new film, "Reservoir Dogs," doesn't pin your ears back, nothing ever will.
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