Reservoir Dogs (1992)

directed by Quentin Tarantino

Jae Min Lee

My era of queer denial was ridiculously long and endlessly tiring. It was an overwhelming tragedy to know who I am but simultaneously not know. What started as an innocuous moment of revelation transformed into suffocating doubt—who thought sharing my identity was tantamount to having to anxiously prove my existence?—and resulted in piles of denial. When there were dictated impositions on how queer people should look and behave, it was near impossible to supposedly prove my existence with traits I did not carry, and I was bound for constant surveillance of myself. When queer people, in a societal climate that lacked awareness and endorsed homophobia, were imagined to be adorned with colored hair, originating from a Western background, frolicking and conversing in English as if queerness was an accessory of the West, my identity—accustomed to non-Western societies—felt like breathing evidence that wholeheartedly invalidated my awakening.

I dubiously eyed the explicitly queer characters in question on screen and cocked my head to the side in confusion in the mirror as the unsettling revelation that I shared no commonalities with these portrayals dawned upon me with so much pain that resulted in a reverberating whisper of: you’re not queer. And still, I deemed this a better option than blatant invisibility. I could change how I looked and behaved, but creating something out of nothing seemed nearly impossible; I could pretend to be a white American since I couldn’t alter the realities depicted in the media.

I was frighteningly complacent. The canon was always surrounded by a cage of unattainability, or an aura of greatness to me. On a pedestal, the only reaction deemed appropriate to this supposed allure was awe and acquiescence. Never did I once think of hammering down the pedestal to shambles and building my masterpiece or painting a streak of red across its pristine beauty—it was just there to be watched and internalized. And I did. Every film I have watched was either delicately framed in gold, hung on a velvet wall, or presented on a dais, sometimes draped with a clean white cover to preserve its beauty. I rarely questioned what was presented before my eyes, in a tragic demeanor of compliance, until I saw something so manifestly queer that I had to speak out against its supposed canon—until I saw Mr. Orange and Mr. White’s haunting relationship in Quentin Tarantino’s debut feature film, Reservoir Dogs (1992).

Birds of a Feather is how I would explain the relationship between Mr. Orange and Mr. White. Upon the introduction of Mr. Orange and Mr. White, the two consistently shared the frame, tacitly engaging with each other. The physical proximity of the two men reflected a unique bond; unlike the other characters engaged in individual activities, smoking cigarettes, stroking facial hair, or indulging in some hot coffee, the two draped their arms over each other’s chairs. It was not just physical intimacy between the characters that imbued this sense of oneness—when Mr. White debates Mr. Pink on tip culture, Mr. Orange remarks, “He’s convinced me, give me my dollar back.” Significantly, Orange does not say this to Mr. Pink, who actively convinced Orange to retract his tip, but to Mr. White, almost as if White deserves the explanation for his change of heart despite White’s eloquent speech on how waitresses depend on tips for their living.

One of the most delicate moments in the film that nods toward this unspoken tie between Mr. Orange and Mr. White is upon their arrival at the warehouse. Having just been shot, Orange bangs his head against the floor, as White deftly unbuckles his pants to help assuage the pain and softly remarks, “Stop banging your head, you’re gonna bang a fucking hole in the floor,” and Orange lets out a comfortable giggle. As Orange’s blood seeps into White’s white dress shirt and his handkerchief, a visual manifestation of the two men's amalgamating psyche and sentiment unfolds. Still drenched in fear and panic, as blood continues to ooze from his wound, Orange pleads, “Larry, I’m so fucking scared. Can you please hold me?” to which White complies with zero hesitation. To further assuage his fear, White whispers into Orange’s ears, and Orange breaks into another childish giggle, as White brushes his hair back with a comb. The interaction delineates the layers of intimacy between the characters — Orange calls White by his first name, Larry, as Larry offers a warm embrace, tucking his arm under Orange’s head.

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Most notably, Larry’s whispers to Orange are inaudible to the audience—a moment of secrecy between the characters is immediately established, perhaps through an inside joke only the two know, or even words of affection that make Orange giggle in comfort. What ultimately underscores this interaction’s significance is that in said undisclosed conversation, the two exist solely in the presence of each other. The depicted secrecy creates a boundary between the audience and unabashedly states how the two don’t owe an explanation of their relationship — they just exist, not for the audience accustomed to heteronormativity, but for themselves, wholeheartedly and covertly indulging in their appreciation for each other. And gradually, but surely, the realization that the two characters might not be straight dawned upon me with startling lucidity. Despite the text’s lack of explicit confirmation of the characters’ orientations, I immediately knew through their nuanced interactions that there was more beyond what the movie presented to me; that they were in a loving relationship, that Reservoir Dogs was more than mere crime film that flaunts masculinity, but a tragedy between an undercover cop and a gang member, and a sorrowful symphony weaved between one man’s unconditional love and another’s struggle to unveil his true self.

I never thought I would cry at a Tarantino film, and yet I did. I stared at the film—which was initially up on a white marble pedestal—now on my feet, broken, as I started to grab the broken pieces in an exhilarating adrenaline rush. It was a jolting recognition that dawned upon me with so much clarity that I couldn’t help but let a scoff leave my mouth. With the domination of heteronormative ideals and hyperexposure of queerness in the media landscape, ambiguity and a lack of confirmation of orientations were all tantamount to heterosexuality in my complacent disposition toward media. My frightening internalization of the status quo and acceptance of its ubiquity finally dawned upon me in that instant.

And when I was void of internalization in the viewing lens I equipped, everything that Reservoir Dogs presented—the stigmatized ideologies of homophobia and misogyny—that supposedly were utilized to depict masculinity morphed into a crystal-clear affirmation of its queerness. I narrowed my eyes at Mr. Orange’s brazen remark of “sit right here on my dick” when Mr. White pointed at the butt of a woman walking by, as my mouth gaped open seeing Mr. Blonde and Nice Guy Eddie’s homoerotic reunion saturated in homophobia; the two wrestle with each other until Blonde banters that he wouldn’t even let his friends take Eddie if he were gay. Eddie then playfully responds, “No, you wouldn't. You’d keep me for yourself.” The scene is surprisingly sensually tense—the homoeroticism that arises from their physical quarrels, of the jokes that are soaked in homophobia, morphed into flirtatious advances. Never mind the movie trying to convince us that they are white homophobes, I thought, laughing, when I reimagined the characters of Reservoir Dogs adhering to masculine ideals to avoid instances of stigmatization in a world where homophobia is rampant. The film’s overt presentation of brazen and masculine queerphobia transformed into a shield for covert queer love. It was an odd sensation, to be seen through invisibility, or more so an instance of ambiguity.

I used to believe in the evils of invisibility, of their inevitable repercussions to disheartening revelations of identities reduced to void, especially for those yearning for genuine representation of themselves. As it remained true that I might have come to terms with my identity sooner if heteronormativity did not heavily dictate cinematic narratives, I couldn’t accept the media’s cowardice toward queerness that they had to use a veil of vagueness to satisfy the homophobic masses, that my existence always had to be reduced to the creators’ laughs: “It didn’t mean to be homoerotic; they are very good friends.” And without an official statement or confirmation of the creators’ acknowledgment of their characters’ queer identities, it felt tantamount to having my existence reduced to void.

However, simultaneously, the beauty of ambiguity could be identified in its refusal to affirm anything as the truth. Ambiguity opens doors to numerous possibilities, providing spaces of solace and identification, even if said media were to be vague in conveying queerness. It encourages a new perspective into the canon—a breaking of said canon—and transforms the canon into a medium to express oneself. And these transformative moments of exhilaration, and the secretive connection that I felt with these characters and their relationships, whom the majority might pass as heterosexual, was what made the experience so valuable—just as Mr. White whispered to Mr. Orange, inaudible to the audience, my demeanor toward my queer identities and communities transcended from a spectacle for the heteronormative masses to an intimately personal affair, solely reserved for my appreciation and understanding. I no longer wished to see my relationship nor my identity be dependent on spaces that were confidingly given to us but wanted to think that the people I saw on the streets were also queer, that the two women who were conversing behind me at a cafe were a couple. Or that the two men who were giggling in the theaters were sharing covert words of love amidst the sea of heterosexual couples. I built my own realities—I built my own canon.

I starkly realized that while my desire for proper, loud representation was understandable, exploring media scarcity of authentic queer characters, it took me many years to concede that my desire for explicitly queer characters was—frankly—rooted in seeking validation from the heteronormative hegemony, that without the hegemony’s recognition of people like myself in media, I would cease to exist. Who could I point to in media when attempting to explain my identity to others? Nonetheless, I realized that I weighed the existence of my very being in the hands of the hegemony that created queer characters for straight people for a little too long—I placed the existence of my being in the hands of those who created stigmatized queer characters to emphasize the supposed greatness of heterosexuality. I unknowingly permitted the media to dictate too much of my realities when I just wanted to exist how the majority existed—normalized, and without having to validate myself every other moment. My existence should be enough proof that I do exist.

The power in the act of reconstructing a media that is meant to reaffirm the status quo and a certain hegemony is inexplicably affirming. Understanding the insignificance of the canon, and its constant purpose in perpetuating the status quo, the act successfully transforms the influence of media into void and inefficacy that cultivates a space of comfort and impact. The canon no longer mattered much to me when I unabashedly built my realities in said media landscape. The myriad of films that were once adorned in gold and jewels, meticulously positioned to be in all their glory, transformed into collages in my head as streaks of paint and reassembled remnants of marbles replaced spaces of supposed sacredness to the experimental—I happily lay down among the art in a colorful mess. A passive spectator observes a film with glasses, while an active one holds a pair of scissors instead; a spectator’s most cathartic moment may be when sacred art turns into an empty canvas. There is no correct means of consuming media and that may be its beauty—that invisibility can always turn to visibility.

Jae Min Lee is a writer hailing from Seoul, South Korea. They are a recent graduate of Smith College with a degree in Film and Media Studies and Sociology, currently enjoying their post-graduation days back home in Seoul, pestering their sister, and writing about things they love. You can find them on Instagram at @vivusuiwr.