It felt like danger.
Here we are, 26 years down the road from that night.
When I sat smushed in the middle of a crowded, small-town theater and let Quinten Tarantino inject pure cinematic heroin into my open veins.
Reservoir Dogs hit first, but only on VHS where I lived.
So John Travolta’s phoenix-like rise from the ashes, the arrival of Samuel L. Jackson, and the birth of Uma Thurman as a screen goddess combined to provide that first big slap to the head.
It was new and fresh and wild, and, all these years later, it hasn’t lost a thing.