Fox Studios.
It was already late July. Kathryn Bigelow stepped into one of the soundstages on the lot, exchanging greetings with familiar faces, and soon spotted Simon directing Robert De Niro and Janet Johnston.
Today they were filming the interaction between Butch Coolidge and the taxi driver Esmeralda Villalobos.
To allow the actors to perform without distractions, the scene—except for the opening and closing—was being shot on a soundstage, with the street views outside the car windows clearly projected onto a large screen, just like in the original film.
Simon had given the taxi driver role—one of his favorites—to Janet, and she'd prepared diligently over the past few days. Hearing about it, Kathryn had arranged to visit the set today, eager to see how her best friend, who'd never been in front of a camera, would perform.
Seeing the group busy, Kathryn held back from interrupting. She nodded to Janet, who had noticed her, then settled into the rest area, casually chatting with the film's producer, Laura Ziskin.
Ron McMillan, who'd collaborated with Simon on Run Lola Run, had been assigned to produce Final Destination. For Pulp Fiction, Orion had recommended Laura Ziskin.
Laura was a blonde in her thirties, fresh off assisting Orion with Kevin Costner and Sean Young's No Way Out, slated for release next month.
After a short chat, Simon and Janet approached.
Janet gave Kathryn a warm hug, then spun around with her arms raised. "Kate, what do you think?"
Kathryn eyed Janet's loose red robe printed with flowers and birds—like pajamas—and her tousled, lazy brown hair. "Feels... kinda weird."
Janet giggled and shook her body again, revealing bare feet with painted toenails under her moon-white wide-leg pants. "I think so too, but if the little punk likes it, it must be right."
Simon caught Kathryn's inquiring gaze and explained, "I actually considered going with pure red. Red signifies danger, and in most of the ghost stories, women wearing red at night are usually not human—they're very dangerous female spirits."
Kathryn sensed Simon's eyes on her and subtly shifted away. "So why not use it?"
Simon smiled. "Because this is a black comedy; adding surreal elements would disrupt the film's overall style."
Laura Ziskin, who'd been listening quietly nearby, chimed in. "Simon, if that's the case, what about the thing in the briefcase? You never explain what's glowing gold in the script—it feels like something that shouldn't exist in the real world."
"It's just an Easter egg for the audience to speculate about," Simon shook his head. "Since no one knows what's inside, it won't impact the plot."
As they talked, the assistant director came over to say they were ready for another take. The group headed to the car mock-up in front of the projection screen. De Niro and Janet got inside and took their marks; Simon double-checked everything, gave the AD an OK gesture, then took over the camera himself.
The film had a dedicated cinematographer, of course, but for Janet's scenes, Simon had decided without hesitation to handle it personally.
Once Simon was ready, the projection and car model started up simultaneously, simulating the taxi in motion.
"Everyone set."
"Pulp Fiction, Scene 26, Take 3."
"Action!"
The slate clapped down.
In the car, Robert De Niro tore and bit at his boxing gloves. Up front, Janet rested one hand on the wheel, her expression a mix of wariness and curiosity, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror now and then.
After a moment, Janet spoke in the soft, sticky accent she'd practiced for weeks.
"Sir... hey, sir?"
"What?"
"You were in that fight, right? The one on the radio—you're the boxer?"
"Why would you think that?"
"You are him, I know it. Tell me you're him!"
Behind the camera.
As the performance reached this point, Simon looked up and signaled the crew: "Cut."
Everyone paused.
Simon leaned into the open car, gave De Niro an approving nod, then turned to Janet. "Jenny, for 'Tell me you're him,' I want to see excitement—a tense restraint holding back your inner madness."
Janet paused, glanced at the mirror, adjusted her emotion slightly, and repeated: "Tell me you're him!"
"Still a bit off," Simon shook his head, thought for a second, then said, "Hold your breath—say it while holding your breath."
Janet inhaled, glanced at the mirror again, and repeated once more: "Tell me you're him!"
"Don't take a deep breath beforehand; it breaks the emotional flow. Keep it natural—don't think of this as performing. Remember, you are Esmeralda, a taxi driver with a crazy, dangerous side buried deep inside. Then suddenly, you encounter a boxer who's just killed a man with his bare hands. Your hidden evil gets stirred up; you're burning with curiosity about what it feels like to kill someone, so you press Butch relentlessly." Simon lowered his voice, describing it almost hypnotically, sensing Janet gradually sinking into the emotions. Finally, he pointed at De Niro in the back seat: "Look, Esme, he's the killer."
With that, Simon stepped back to the camera.
"Everyone set."
"Pulp Fiction, Scene 26, Take 4."
"Action!"
In the car, De Niro—freshly sprayed with 'sweat'—began tearing at the gloves again.
From the back of the crowd, Kathryn watched the scene quietly.
Take four didn't pass either; Simon approached again, patiently guiding Janet on how to perform, even unhesitatingly mimicking a woman's voice to demonstrate Esmeralda's lines for her.
Then.
Take five, six, seven, eight...
Simon kept calling "CUT," but coached her tirelessly without a trace of impatience, unlike other directors who might erupt after multiple flubs. Janet adjusted obediently each time, utterly compliant.
But gradually, that compliance took on a hint of manic intensity.
Nearly two hours passed this way, with Kathryn watching silently. In one moment, she suddenly thought: these two are both on the verge of losing it.
The scene, which had started at one in the afternoon, dragged on into quitting time with monotonous repetition. Sensing the pair's deep immersion, no one suggested wrapping for the day.
Until seven in the evening.
The projection lit up again, and the car model whirred into action.
In the car.
Perhaps from exhaustion, the woman's originally fluffy brown hair now hung listlessly, the soft strands adding an even more sultry, lazy vibe. Her eyes remained bright, filled with curiosity, her whole demeanor like a dangerous cat poised to pounce on its prey.
At that point.
Everyone in the room felt it: this was Esmeralda, the taxi driver sharing a name with the heroine from The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
Sultry, alluring, with an accent and a soft, sticky tone—but suppressing a danger and madness that could erupt at any moment, as if she might suddenly draw a blade and stab bloody holes into someone.
In the shot.
With her chin slightly lifted, her eyes not particularly lively, but fully immersed in the role, she exuded a mysterious allure that drew all focus, even subtly overshadowing the two-time Oscar winner in the back.
"..."
"..."
"So, Esmeralda, what do you want to know?"
"What does it feel like to kill someone?"
"I can't tell you. I didn't even know he was dead until you mentioned it. Anyway, I don't feel the least bit guilty."
"..."
Take thirty-one wrapped.
The projection kept playing, the model kept running, and the two in the car remained fully immersed in their roles. Though silent, each held their character's state.
After a moment.
Simon finally looked up and called out loudly: "Good."
Everyone let out a sigh of relief—finally time to call it a day.
They quickly began packing up the set. Robert De Niro climbed out of the car, taking a towel from a crew member to wipe himself down; repeated 'sweat' sprays had soaked his boxing shorts through. Glancing back casually, he noticed Janet still sitting in the car, completely motionless.
Soon, everyone else picked up on Janet's unusual state, and Simon hurried over right away.
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