This is the design language of a 35-cent crime paperback yanked off a drugstore spinner rack, then cut apart on Tarantino's editing table. Screaming red-and-yellow, worn goldenrod stock, hard black lettering — and the film's own device: black-card chapter titles that snap between scenes like tabbed dividers in a lurid dime-novel anthology.

Everything is loud, cheap-looking on purpose, and proud of it. Halftone grain, cover creases, ink that mis-registers a hair off its plate. Nothing is polished; the wear IS the design. A story too disreputable for a hardcover, printed on the cheapest yellow stock they had — and better for it.