Butch escaped his desperate predicament, endured a day of shattering absurdity, and rode off into the sunset with his girlfriend. The gold watch segment concluded.
The story pressed on, circling back to the apartment where Vincent and Jules had confronted the double-crossing punks at the film's start.
A survivor hiding in the bathroom burst out and emptied his gun at the unprepared pair. Every shot missed. Jules took it as divine intervention and began pondering retirement; Vincent insisted it was pure chance. In the heat of their argument, they accidentally blew the informant's head off, splattering blood across the car's interior.
To avoid police stops, Jules drove to a nearby friend named Jimmy's house to handle the mess. Jimmy, completely unfazed by the blood-soaked duo or the headless corpse in the back, fretted endlessly about his wife Bonnie coming home from her night shift. The sheer absurdity drew helpless laughter from the audience once more.
The fixer, Mr. Wolf, arrived—finally revealing the role fans had been waiting for Robert Redford to play.
A group of grown men solemnly disposed of the body to spare Jimmy domestic catastrophe, pushing the film's absurdity to its peak. Critics in the hall began to understand why the final segment was titled "The Bonnie Situation."
Bonnie, an ordinary night-shift nurse who never appeared on screen, somehow became—against all logic—the pivotal force driving this dark comedy's plot.
With the corpse dealt with, Vincent and Jules stopped at a roadside diner for breakfast. There they encountered the robbers played by Madonna and Sean Penn—"Pumpkin" and "Honey Bunny"—and the story closed in a perfect loop.
As the end credits rose, Mike Medavoy glanced around the darkened theater, his suspended heart finally easing.
Cannes premieres often saw mass walkouts when films were deemed dreadful or ideologically offensive. Medavoy had worried that Pulp Fiction's graphic violence and candid drug scenes would provoke disgust.
Yet when the lights came up, the two-thousand-seat Lumière remained full. No disaster had occurred.
Not every viewer adored the film, but those fortunate enough to attend a sold-out red-carpet premiere—industry insiders, journalists, critics, devoted fans—possessed the discernment to judge quality.
Thunderous applause soon filled the hall.
After a brief curtain call, the audience filed out. Simon and the principal cast moved to the adjacent press room for the customary post-premiere conference. Nearing noon, no one wasted time; as soon as the panel settled, hands shot up.
The moderator selected a bespectacled, brown-haired man whose features screamed French. He took the microphone and spoke in lightly accented English: "Mr. Westeros, I'm Vincent Fessi from Cahiers du Cinéma. First, let me say that Pulp Fiction is another stunning achievement. It completely breaks free of the style that defined Run Lola Run, showing bold innovation in cinematography, music, and narrative structure. What I'm curious about, though, is what the film is trying to say."
Simon waited for him to finish, leaned toward the microphone with a smile, and replied, "Thank you for the kind words, Vincent. And please, everyone, just call me Simon. I'm only twenty; being addressed as 'Mr. Westeros' feels a little strange." [TL/N: Bro is lowkey flexing]
Laughter rippled through the room. Simon continued, "As for your question, I didn't set out to convey any profound message. The title says it all—pulp fiction. These are stories you could read on the toilet for pure entertainment. That said, the film is also a playground for many of my experimental ideas about cinema. It's essentially a comprehensive exercise in narrative and technique. Viewers will easily spot my nods to classic films in music, shots, and storytelling."
When Simon finished, the Cahiers journalist kept hold of the microphone and fired off another question: "Then, Simon, how did the concept for this film come about?"
Simon was ready. "It wasn't a single flash of inspiration. It's the result of ideas accumulating over time, which is why the film is divided into several distinct stories."
The moderator moved on to another journalist before the man could press further.
"I'm Ed Burks from The Sun," the next reporter said. "Simon, I noticed an unusual number of barefoot shots of female characters. Do you have a foot fetish?" [TL/N: Whaaaat? HAHAHAHA]
Simon paused, recalling that The Sun was the tabloid later embroiled in News Corporation's phone-hacking scandal, and understood the angle. Facing a sea of amused and mischievous stares, he smiled and answered, "I appreciate everything beautiful. The way Maggie pouts at Sean, Nicole's bangs, Janet's eyes, and so on. Oh, and my girlfriend's hands—didn't you notice? Her hands are gorgeous too. I even gave them a close-up."
Space on the dais was limited; Janet, a mere cameo player, had not been seated on stage.
At that moment, hearing Simon publicly declare his affection, the press corps chuckled and turned toward Janet, who stood near the rear exit with Medavoy and others. The usually unflappable woman flushed under the sudden attention and quickly fled backstage.
After the tabloid detour, the conference returned to serious topics. Questions shifted to Redford, Travolta, and the rest of the cast.
Half an hour later the session ended. Simon had completed the main purpose of his Cannes trip. Further screenings of Pulp Fiction were scheduled, but he need not attend; the actors who had come specifically for the festival could now depart.
In the days that followed, major outlets published their reviews.
Despite Simon's modesty at the press conference, nothing slowed the film's glowing reception. Variety, across the Atlantic, unabashedly declared Pulp Fiction "a lavish display of Westeros's cinematic talent."
The film's lighting and camerawork on par with Run Lola Run its inventive circular structure, its gallery of vivid and memorable characters, and countless other details became favorite topics among critics.
No film escapes detractors, of course.
Amid near-universal praise, some outlets criticized excessive violence or overly derivative elements, but such voices gained no traction.
Pulp Fiction's aggregate press score soon appeared: 4.3—lower than Kieślowski's 4.6 for A Short Film About Killing, yet exactly what Simon hoped for.
Everyone knew that the highest-rated film at Cannes rarely left empty-handed, but it also rarely won the Palme d'Or. To Simon, 4.3 felt perfect.
The mountaintop villa in Le Cannet.
Evening the following day. Cars began arriving from various parts of Cannes.
Having bought a home here, Simon could hardly appear inhospitable. After discussing it with Janet, they organized a small, intimate party, inviting only close industry friends.
Around seven-thirty, as dusk settled, Jennifer knocked on the study door. She entered the spacious room lined with easels, glanced at the rough yet strikingly vivid concept sketches for film scenes, and approached Simon at the window. After a moment she said softly, "Boss, everyone's here."
"Almost ready," Simon replied, adding a few strokes to a drawing of Batman leaping from one flipping vehicle to another racing car. He turned to Jennifer. "What do you think?"
Jennifer tilted her head, picturing Batman bursting from a tumbling car and vaulting onto a speeding sedan. "That's going to be incredibly dangerous to shoot."
Simon nodded. "We'll break it down as much as possible. If the CG holds up, we can enhance details in post. It should work."
Jennifer added, "You'll still need a stunt double."
"Yeah."
Simon set down his brush, washed his hands in the adjacent bathroom, and descended with Jennifer to the ground-floor living room.
When he appeared, conversation paused and eyes turned toward him. Simon chatted casually with Medavoy, Redford, and others. With no formal agenda, the party truly began once the host arrived.
Soft music played; guests mingled in small groups, drinking, eating, and talking with relaxed ease.
"The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson is back on air," Medavoy said quietly, champagne in hand. "In recent days more than seventy production companies have reached agreements with the Writers Guild. Simon, the strike might end by month's end. I've already spoken to NBC; they're willing to devote an episode to the Pulp Fiction team on the thirty-first. Your schedule should be clear, right?"
Though Simon knew the strike would not resolve so easily smaller companies' capitulation would only harden the majors' stance he kept his opinion to himself. "Of course. I'll be back by the twenty-fifth at the latest, and I may need to spend some time in New York."
Medavoy smiled. "For those reality shows your company is producing?"
"Yes."
No point denying it; the pitches to the networks had already gone public.
Medavoy paused, then said, "I've heard a few things. Your reality formats apparently don't require writers. In ordinary times that might not matter, but right now it could earn you the Guild's hostility."
Simon shrugged helplessly. "Mike, in ordinary times do you think the major networks would have taken a meeting with Daenerys for television programming?"
Medavoy shook his head with a wry smile. "No."
Even Orion had only recently launched a television division. Crossing into TV production was no simple feat.
Though Daenerys had several hit films, it had yet to prove itself in television. Even if the networks liked the concepts, they would not offer generous terms.
Thus the ongoing writers' strike leaving networks desperate for content presented Daenerys's best window into the field. Miss it, and the company would have to build credibility slowly or spend heavily to acquire an established producer.
"So, if offending the Guild is the price, I'll pay it," Simon said, spreading his hands. After a moment he asked, "You're not planning to sign an early deal with them, are you?"
Medavoy shook his head shrewdly. "Our core business is still features. We don't need to."
Both men understood the real reason; neither needed to spell it out.
Smaller studios were capitulating to survive; six months without work in the current climate meant closure.
Orion's situation was hardly rosy, but the company relied far less on television revenue. And its founders—veteran Hollywood operators—knew that premature surrender would invite severe retaliation later.
As they spoke, Madonna approached in a low-cut black evening gown, red wine in hand. She raised her glass toward Medavoy. "What are you two discussing?"
"Good evening, Ms. Ciccone," Medavoy replied warmly, then tactfully excused himself. "Just some minor business. Actually, I need to speak with Travolta about promotion. You two chat."
Once Medavoy left, Simon glanced at her and asked, "Where's Sean?"
Madonna gave him a playful look. "Is Sean more interesting than I am?"
Simon sighed. "I was just wondering why he isn't here tonight."
"He flew back to Los Angeles last night for an audition," Madonna said, gazing at him unabashedly. "So now it's just me, all alone."