Tarantino's trademarks: Feet (fetish)

Tarantino şi John Schlesinger m-au învăţat să privesc altfel picioarele femeilor, de la genunchi în jos. Tarantino a dezvoltat în timp, un supracult pentru gambe, tălpi și degete, mai exact. (Despre lecţia lui Schlesinger cu altă ocazie). Presupun că, la casting, „let me see your feet first" e o chestiune de la sine înţeleasă, parte din ritualul selecţiei. În caz că nu-i convine ceva, îl văd în stare să angajeze o dublură pentru... tălpi! Nu că nu s-ar purta.

Uma Thurman, Bridget Fonda, Rosario Dawson şi Sydney Poitier şi-au pus tălpile la bătaie, iar Tarantino le-a mângâiat prin lentile din toate unghiurile posibile, în tot felul de ipostaze.  

Tarantino insistă cu close-up-uri pe talpa sau laba piciorului aşa cum Michael Mann îşi odihneşte focusul pe feţele actorilor, lăsând ridurile şi mişcările abia perceptibile ale muşchilor să vorbească.

Înţeleg că şi Diane Kruger în Basterds... ne îngăduie o re(ve)laţie intimă cu tălpile ei, dar despre asta la momentul potrivit. Până atunci, să vedem cum a lăsat QT urme pe peliculă cu picioarele altora.

Death Proof (2007)

Kill Bill vol. 1 (2003)

Jackie Brown (1997)

Pulp Fiction (1994) +

bonus (dialogul dintre Jules Winnfield şi Vincent Vega despre foot massage):

Jules: Look, just because I don't be givin' no man a foot massage don't make it right for Marsellus to throw Antwone into a glass motherfuckin' house, fuckin' up the way the nigger talks. Motherfucker do that shit to me, he better paralyze my ass, 'cause I'll kill the motherfucker, know what I'm sayin'?
Vincent: I ain't saying it's right. But you're saying a foot massage don't mean nothing, and I'm saying it does. Now look, I've given a million ladies a million foot massages, and they all meant something. We act like they don't, but they do, and that's what's so fucking cool about them. There's a sensuous thing going on where you don't talk about it, but you know it, she knows it, fucking Marsellus knew it, and Antwone should have fucking better known better. I mean, that's his fucking wife, man. He can't be expected to have a sense of humor about that shit. You know what I'm saying?
Jules: That's an interesting point. Come on, let's get into character.

(few moments later)
Jules: It was a foot massage. A foot massage means nothin'. I give my mother a foot massage.
Vincent: It's layin' your hands in a familiar way on Marsellus' new wife. Is it as bad as eatin' her pussy out? No. But it's the same fuckin' ballpark."
Jules: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa... stop right there. Eatin' a bitch out, and givin' a bitch a foot massage ain't even the same fuckin' thing.
Vincent: It's not. It's the same ballpark.
Jules: Ain't no fuckin' ballpark neither. Now look, maybe your method of massage differs from mine, but, you know, touchin' his wife's feet, and stickin' your tongue in her Holiest of Holies, ain't the same fuckin' ballpark, it ain't the same league, it ain't even the same fuckin' sport. Look, foot massages don't mean shit.
Vincent: Have you ever given a foot massage?
Jules: [scoffs] Don't be tellin' me about foot massages. I'm the foot fuckin' master.
Vincent: Given a lot of 'em?
Jules: Shit yeah. I got my technique down and everything, I don't be ticklin' or nothin'.
Vincent: Would you give a guy a foot massage?
[Jules gives Vincent a long look, realizing he's been set up]
Jules: Fuck you.
Vincent: You give them a lot?
Jules: Fuck you.
Vincent: You know, I'm getting kinda tired. I could use a foot massage myself.
Jules: Man, you best back off, I'm gittin' a little pissed here.

(cf. imdb.com)