Tools of Characterization
Characterization in Pulp Fiction
It Suits You
Ever since Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino has had a signature fashion look. He describes it as his characters' coat of armor, the thing that both defends and distinguishes them. Some gangsters wear particular colors, some wear old school trench coats. Tarantino's gangsters wear black suits and narrow ties; it's just his thing.
The black suits and skinny ties convey cool. Tarantino's the maestro of cool; his characters look cool and they think they're cool, too. It's when events conspire to challenge their cool that the conflict enters the story (source).
Notably in the case of Vincent and Jules, they accidentally kill Marsellus' informer and are faced with having to dispose of a bloody car and mangled corpse. They freak out.
Not cool.
And it just so happens they lose the suits. They strip off the bloody suits and get into some of Jimmie's old clothes. They stand in front of the Wolf and Jimmie humiliated; it's a punishment of sorts. Their suits were a symbol of status and their cool, and now they look like "a couple of dorks" in old college tee shirts and shorts. They can't have the big scary hitmen persona that they put on for Brett and the boys. Imagine them walking into that apartment dressed in their '80s shirts and swim trunks. We don't think Brett would let Jules take a big bite outta his burger, and we don't think Ringo would have messed with him in the diner if he'd been in "uniform."
Occupation
Every major character in this film is a criminal or a wife or girlfriend of a criminal, so there's not much to distinguish character traits on the basis of occupation. We assume criminals are tough, impulsive, comfortable with risk and violence, interested in money, and quick to blow. And we're right. But Tarantino subverts our expectations by adding some more to the mix. Our criminals love to talk—and talk and talk—about all kinds of things you wouldn't expect from thugs. French fast food, gourmet coffee, why you shouldn't eat pigs, Marilyn Monroe, pancakes, Elvis, whether miracles exist...these guys are less one-dimensional than you'd think.
And who would think that one of the hitmen would turn out to be a spiritual adviser to a couple of punk robbers?
Speech and Dialogue
Tarantino loves to write dialogue—long meandering dialogue on offbeat, trivial topics. Pigs and pancakes, details about Dutch hash bars, French fast food, foot massages—our criminals talk about everything except their jobs. As Roger Ebert noted, lots of films use dialogue just to advance the plot or explain the action, but in Pulp Fiction, it's used to entertain, to establish relationships between the characters, or even to distract from the action that's about to go down.
For example, Vincent and Jules' famous discussion about foot massages goes on for a good three and a half minutes while they're waiting to bust in on Brett and the boys. We're learning that these guys love to talk, love to think about stuff, and aren't particularly worried about killing people. They're able to totally get into this irrelevant discussion two minutes before they execute Brett and his buddy. What do we learn from this? It's just a job for Jules and Vincent.
All the characters have language laced with profanity and racial slurs. It's par for the course for guys in their positions. Crime boss Marsellus doesn't have much dialogue, but when he talks, he's threatening or telling people what to do. (Except when he's helplessly bound and gagged, that is.) Jules has a slow and deliberate way of speaking that tells us he's a guy in control of himself and the situation. Butch talks like a tough-guy fighter:
ESMARELDA: Where to?
BUTCH: Outta here.
Or, to Marsellus, while he breaks his finger and shoves the barrel of a gun in his face:
BUTCH: So you like chasing people, huh? Well guess what, big man. You caught me.
OK, so we know he's not to be messed with. But then there are those long dialogue-filled scenes with Fabienne where we see that this tough guy can be turned into a puddle by his petite girlfriend. They talk about pancakes and potbellies and pie. He calls her "jelly bean." Butch is in a panic; Marsellus is chasing him and if he's caught, he's a dead man. He has to go out to retrieve his gold watch. He's furious with her for forgetting it, but eventually here's what he says:
BUTCH: Don't feel bad, sugar pop. Nothing you could ever do would make me permanently angry at you. I love you, remember? Now here's some money, order those pancakes and have a great breakfast. […] I'll be back before you can say "blueberry pie."
Maybe seeing this softer side of Butch sets us up for seeing him do the right thing with Marsellus later in the story. He's not 100% bad.
Winston Wolf is a problem-solver, and we know that right away from the no-nonsense way he talks:
THE WOLF: Now: you got a corpse in a car minus a head in a garage. Take me to it.
He's in complete command of the gory situation and has the businesslike language to prove it. Still, The Wolf understands that he's got to keep Jules and Vincent from freaking out if the job's gonna get done on time:
THE WOLF: (to Jules) What did I say?
JULES: Don't do s*** unless –
THE WOLF: Unless what?
JULES: Unless you do it first.
THE WOLF: Spoken like a true prodigy. (to Vincent)How about you, Lash Larue? Can you keep your spurs from jingling and jangling?
VINCENT: I'm cool Mr. Wolf. My gun just went off, I dunno how.
Wolf manages to make even Vincent feel timid and apologetic.
Captain Koons is another great example. In a flashback, Koons tells the young Butch a long, long story about how the gold watch he's giving him has been handed down through generations starting with Butch's great-grandfather. Through a harrowing story about the POW camp Koons was in with Butch's father, he has an intense and serious military bearing and dramatic way of delivering the story. He uses tough military lingo:
KOONS: This watch was on your Daddy's wrist when he was shot down over Hanoi. He was captured, put in a Vietnamese prison camp. He knew if the g***s ever saw the watch it'd be confiscated, taken away. The way your Dad looked at it, that watch was your birthright. He'd be damned if any slopes were gonna put their greasy yella hands on his boy's birthright. So he hid it in the one place he knew he could hide something. His ass. Five long years, he wore this watch up his ass. Then he died of dysentery, he gave me the watch. I hid this uncomfortable hunk of metal up my ass two years. Then, after seven years, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, I give the watch to you.
After the speech, we know two things: that this is a guy tough and devoted enough to his buddies to hide a watch in his rectum for two years; and that Christopher Walken was capable of giving a speech like this to a 5-year-old boy without cracking up.