The room is dimly lit. The screen flashes and surf rock reverberates through the living room while my mother and father shift uncomfortably in their seats. "Goddamn that's a pretty fuckin' good milkshake," says Vincent Vega, a gangster in a proverbial "take out the boss's wife" situation onscreen. I can feel my parents' disapproval burning a hole in the back of my twelve-year-old head as the 'bitch's' and 'motherfucker's' keep pouring out of their mouths into a giant filthy heap. I am entranced. In this, my first viewing of Quentin Tarantino's postmodern classic Pulp Fiction, I had stumbled upon an unrealized art form that I could not even correctly classify (until my sophomore year of college). The soundtrack, the dialogue, the way the camera circles Uma Thurman and John Travolta as they awkwardly twist and sway in the film's iconic dance scene: each process intrigues me. Before that point, I hadn't realized what filmmaking actually was: just that, a process. Once I got my investigative foot in the door, I was hooked. Since then, I have studied film extensively, both through personal research and academic work. With an ever-analytical eye, my subtle taste and perceptions eventually evolved into critique. An overly-evaluative, sometimes scathing luminary was born in my mind. Never before has this figure--this persona--seen the light of day (or in our case, the fluorescent glow of a computer monitor) apart from, as Mia Wallace might say, the "bullshit" I "yak about" with friends or the pages of some academic essay.
Without censor, without inhibition, I aspire to, at last, speak freely about cinema and all of its components: from the greatest of insignificancies to the most excessively ostentatious showings, in the theater, on the set and in our living rooms.