Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, originally released in 1994, has aged gorgeously. It's one of those rare films that can be watched and re-watched for 20 years and remain as shocking, vivid, and irresistible as the year it was released.
The 1994 trailer, however, now seems corny and dated by comparison.
It begins with dramatic piano music and a solemn voiceover, which is interrupted by the sound of gunshots and animated bullet holes through a frame that touts the film’s Best Picture accolades at Cannes. The rest of the trailer is a haphazard montage of moments from the film, interspersed with black frames that feature single words in red typeface: "Loyalty," "Betrayal," "Crime," and so on, before revealing this hokey tagline: "You won't know the facts... until you see the fiction."
Pulp Fiction lampoons itself in a way that captures director Quentin Tarantino’s still-appealing puckishness, but the devices it uses seem old-fashioned by today's standards. But this isn’t just a particular quirk of Pulp Fiction’s promos. Watching the trailer for any classic film years after its release can be a disorienting experience. Many trailers don't hold up at all, even when their full-length film counterparts do.
This may seem counterintuitive. After all, a trailer is made from pieces of the film. It's meant to encapsulate what the film is all about. And yet the narrative structure of the film trailer, as a format, seems to evolve more rapidly than the narrative structure of film.
Why is that? Ultimately, it’s because a trailer is built around the advertising ideas and dominant media of its time. In other words, a trailer is as much a product of its media environment as it is reflective of the film it’s selling.
"The trailer is the single most important piece of advertising about a movie," said CBS Films co-president Terry Press. "There's nothing else that comes close. And if you have a bad one, and people go apeshit on the Internet and don't like it, some filmmakers never recover." (Indeed, the trailer is important enough to the movie-going public that The New York Times published an interactive feature last year devoted to dissecting the trailers of new films compared with the chronology of the movies themselves—and more recently, Wired produced an entire series celebrating and analyzing our national obsession with coming attractions.)
It may seem like the Internet age has upended some long-standing traditional formula for trailers the way it has upended long-standing traditions in virtually every other form of art and entertainment. But a look back into the history of the movie trailer shows that film previews have almost always been in the process of evolving, almost always directly influenced by the pop-cultural landscapes that created them.
Coming attractions have been part of the movie-going experience for a century now. (In the early days, movie houses ran trailers after a film's conclusion rather than before a film began—they were called "trailers" because they trailed the feature film.) In the blockbuster-rich 1940s, film trailers were built around how you might sell a moving picture to a stage-going audience, or to someone listening on the radio. It was the era of "the hypersell," according to Press: "If you look at the ones in the ‘40s, there were so many movies and so many people going to movies, they were all sort of over-the-top with the copy, like, 'This is the greatest movie of the year!' They used big, giant claim-lines."
For instance, check out the trailer for 1940’s The Philadelphia Story:
The time between cuts, and the overall pacing, drags by today's standards. It runs nearly four minutes long. The tone is completely over-the-top, promising a "star-packed, laugh-laden, romantic smash." The trailer opens and closes with the title card and actors' names in lights—again, an image that evokes the stage more than the silver screen. (This makes sense, on one level: The Philadelphia Story was written as a play and proved a hit on Broadway, also starring Katharine Hepburn, before it was adapted to film.)
In the 1950s, as television came into its own, the narrative devices in film trailers mirrored what people were seeing on TV and in print, the influential media of the day. In the trailer for 1954’s Rear Window, the narrator sounds as though he could be selling toothpaste in the typical, polished-but-hyperbolic tone you'd hear in TV spots of the era. At one point (around the 1:40 mark), lead actor Jimmy Stewart breaks character to turn and address the audience about the film, looking directly into the camera—a narrative style that was a hallmark of 1950s-launched programs like Alfred Hitchcock Presents and The Twilight Zone.
The trailer concludes with two frames that look like print ads; they're text-heavy and voiceover-free, left for the audience to read: "SEE IT! If your nerves can stand it after Psycho. And see it from the beginning of course."
Advertising tends to evolve when audiences become desensitized to whatever device is being used to lure them in. That's by design. Here's how media thinker Marshall McLuhan put it in 1977:
The concern of the advertiser is to make an effect ... He sets a trap to catch somebody's attention ... The [advertisements] we might select now as the great ads of the year would probably not get the same vote 50 years from now.
So it makes sense that after a period of hypersell in the 1940s and 1950s, film trailers entered a period of relative realism, featuring more minimalist montages in the 1960s and 1970s. It wasn't until the 1980s and 1990s that filmgoers saw concept trailers "not selling what the movie is” but rather “selling what they want you to think the movie is," Press said.
But the 1960s and 1970s brought remarkable contributions to the canon of American film, with masterpieces from filmmakers like Robert Altman, Francis Ford Coppola, and Stanley Kubrick. It’s easy to see how breathtaking motion pictures yielded trailers featuring little other than material from the films themselves. So, whereas the film trailers made in the decades before and after this period rely heavily on written copy—either a voiceover script or glowing excerpts from film reviews, for example—film trailers of the 1960s and 1970s were relatively spartan.
"I look at trailers from the '60s, and they're true to what the movie is," Press said.
Watch the trailer for 1967’s The Graduate, and you'll see what she means.
It's long enough to include some of the most iconic shots of the film—Dustin Hoffman as Benjamin Braddock framed by the crook of Mrs. Robinson's knee, and the disruptive wedding scene from the film's climax, for example. The latter might seem excessive for a preview—it’s a scene that reveals plot points a viewer might not want to know before watching the story unfold.
Today, avoiding spoilers is a luxury. They're everywhere, and the immediacy of Internet discourse makes them hard to evade. But audiences have actually been lamenting spoilers for more than 70 years. The New York Times wrote in 1938 that moviegoers resented trailers "because they sometimes give practically the entire storyline and are bubbling over with superlatives about the new film."