The Film Stage contributor Miles Trahan discusses (at length) the merits of Quentin Tarantino’s new film Inglourious Basterds, specifically where it stands in the filmmaker’s wider filmography and how it best functions compared to other films of its ilk. Note: This is not a review so much as a think-piece, and does not come with a letter grade; however, be forewarned that the following contains spoilers.
For young filmmakers of my generation, Quentin Tarantino is both a touchstone and a man whose lumbering shadow we scramble violently to get out from under. An energetic pop culture sounding board with big ideas and the tenacity (or is that clout?) to see them through, he’s both the prototype and the continuing poster child for a generation that’s learned to spit out what it so voraciously chews on; a generation that’s managed to put hours wasted away in dark, dank cinemas or rooted stoically before a glowing television set to good use; a generation which has made deriving influence an art form in and of itself. At the risk of damning with faint praise, the man has made being a cultural magpie unequivocally chic.
Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction revolutionized modern cinema even while glorifying its uglier sides; both films are derived less from experience or analysis than a desire to imitate, a desire for tone — their DNA is not life, but movies. They’re brazenly, unabashedly cinematic; their characters are characters, their pathos are skin-deep, their speech is less conversation than rhythmic ballet, less a verbal sparring match than a soulful duet. In other words, no one could possibly mistake them for being what we know as “realistic”. They are flights of fancy printed to celluloid, fantasy films masquerading as nitty-gritty character pieces. They are cool, they are fun — they play like an uninterrupted jam session, constantly doubling back and over, missing a beat here or there, relishing the moments where things “click” to turn a spirited cacophony into beautiful music. They are jazz, they are Godard. They feel fresh and new and vibrant even fifteen years past their expiration date; in fact they’re still so ripe with the splendor and spectacle of pure cinema one wonders if they come with an expiration date at all. They get by on charm and spunk, and are endearing for their playfulness, their willingness to go left where others would go right, their boldfaced assertion that cinema was then and this is now and it’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen before.
Like most of my generation, I love these films. Like most film geeks, I love them even more because they speak to me and others of my ilk in what we rather arrogantly assume to be Morse code; they are films about films, about the films we love and figure no one else has ever heard of and that no one in their right minds would waste time talking about — and then there’s this motor-mouth with his wild eyes and flailing arms waxing poetic and at a mile a minute about them as if they were the most important things in the world and you know what maybe they are. Quentin’s early films helped make “cinephilia” cool and admirable instead of odd quirks to raise eyebrows like collecting Beanie Babies or buying comics or doing any number of activities which society deems anti-social and thus juvenile and reproachable. They made film geeks and film geekdom strangely fashionable; they get a pass if nothing else than for the fact that they so clearly and plainly illustrate that Quentin is indeed “one of us.”
And then a weird thing happened. Quentin blew up and, following a poorly received (if unjustly so) third feature (Jackie Brown), went AWOL for six years and left a legion of devotees hanging and waiting around with baited breath. The long-awaited (and long overdue) Kill Bill films were a momentous occasion, and in retrospect they delivered — they’re good, solid films in their own right, not exactly Pulp Fiction but not really trying to be anyhow. And at the same time these films defined the trajectory of Quentin’s career post-Brown; where once the filmmaker guided us along with a certain grace, tongue planted firmly in cheek, now he tosses concept and image and “homage” and everything under the sun at the screen all at once and laughs gleefully while doing it, long and hard and full of pumped-up gusto. His following film, the ironically titled Death Proof (considering it did in fact did die a quick and painful death at the box office as the second half of Grindhouse), could reasonably be described as watching the filmmaker masturbating furiously for two hours on celluloid and talking himself silly while doing it. These later films are more or less a mess, to varying degrees; there’s this lingering sense that Quentin’s regressed somewhat in the last few years, casting off the bold maturity of Jackie Brown to play in a vast, empty sandbox by himself, where he’s free to do anything he wants and go wherever his heart desires on the slightest whim. Some would call this freedom; others, indulgence.
Which leads me to the heart of the matter, the World War II epic calling itself Inglourious Basterds (the misspelling is intentional, for reasons no one but Quentin seems to know). Originally envisioned as a “guys on a mission” throwback (think The Dirty Dozen with a potty mouth), Basterds has been in the works since before the general public even caught wind of Pulp Fiction a good fifteen years ago, though only now is it finally gracing screens worldwide. Indeed this could very well be Quentin’s epic; it’s broader in scope and more bombastic in execution than any the man’s previous films, including the already bloated and over-the-top Kill Bill series. Over the years, however, the film seems to have morphed far beyond its original scope– the final cut feels less like a Dirty Dozen riff than an ode to Cinema Paradiso.
And much as it may surprise you, believe the hype: This film is fucking glorious.
Inglourious Basterds follows two main plotlines. In the first, a young Jewish refugee named Shoshanna (played with steely grace by Mélanie Laurent) takes to posing as the owner of a French repertory theater following the execution of her family at the hands of the S.S., specifically famed Col. Hans “The Jew Hunter” Landa (a scene-stealing Christoph Waltz), and comes perilously close to watching her façade unravel when she catches the eye and attention of a young S.S. war hero-cum-movie star (Daniel Brühl). In the second, a group of Jewish American Allies led by Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt, channeling Rhett Butler) terrorize the Third Reich with regular ambushes, baseball bats to the cranium and (fair warning to the faint of heart) meticulously detailed scalpings mimicking those famously administered by Apache resistance fighters. At a certain point, of course, these two plots begin to convene; a plan is set into motion to eliminate a fair chunk of the S.S. top brass by infiltrating the premiere of a Goebbels-helmed propaganda film and making sure no one comes out alive. And as luck would have it, the premiere just so happens to be taking place at Shoshanna’s theater.
It’s interesting to note just how intrigued Tarantino seems to be by the Nazi propaganda machine (and by association Herr Goebbels himself, who appears in the film about as frequently as the title characters); had Inglourious Basterds been released at the height of World War II it would itself function as an unabashed, unapologetic piece of propaganda. It’s a film less concerned with facts and historical accuracy than with ideas and homespun mythology: Nazis are evil, and they most definitely need to be taught a lesson. (“Nazis ain’t got no humanity”, Raine snarls at his would-be compatriots, “and they need to be destroyed.”) Over some two and a half hours we watch as Nazis are beaten to death, pumped full of bullets and, in a grand finale, herded into a locked room by the hundreds and blown to bits (perhaps the most obvious and satisfying spin on concentration camp atrocities we’ve seen at the cinema). Basterds is wish fulfillment to its very core, a revisionist tale in which the Jews (including Shoshanna, dealing the Third Reich the fatal blow) make the Nazis run scared. Its seventy years of watching Jews herded into boxcars and sent off to a very certain death (in films like Schindler’s List and Shoah) rewritten, a revenge fantasy in which the ultimate “fuck you” is dealt by the cinema itself (both literally and figuratively).
In pure Tarantino fashion, Basterds’ lifeblood is cinema. Scenes of extreme violence doled out at a lightning-fast clip punctuate long stretches wherein characters discuss the merits of Goebbels’ propaganda machine, the work of Leni Riefenstahl and G.W. Pabst, and even a great bit where King Kong is used as an allegory for the American slave trade. (Also notable: characters Aldo Raine, Hugo Stiglitz and Ed Fenech are all tributes to classic character actors of the same name). Of course the fall of the Third Reich must take place in a cinema — where else can history be rewritten with such unflappable confidence as on the silver screen? Those expecting an “accurate” account need look elsewhere; Basterds is pure fantasy, and oh how joyously crazy it all is. It’s a film where we’re asked to cheer on an S.S. officer getting his skull bashed in (as the Basterds do themselves), where Hitler is reduced to a raving loony with a ridiculous inferiority complex, a film that makes even “Springtime for Hitler” look like a History channel special in comparison. It’s fiction totally run amuck, tearing apart and chewing on things as they happened and presenting its own version of how things should have happened. And tribute to Tarantino’s innumerable talents, by the end we’re cheering louder and harder than we really have any right to be — it’s a film so gleefully preposterous we have no choice but to throw preconceptions to the wind and just roll with it.
In perhaps the film’s most tongue-in-cheek moment, Pitt’s Aldo stares right into the camera after carving a swastika in the head of a rather deserving party and muses “I think this just might be my masterpiece.” (Wink wink, nudge nudge.) While Basterds certainly finds the filmmaker back on the right track, calling it a masterpiece may be a bit of a stretch. It’s certainly not a film without its faults; it runs a bit overlong, has a few jokes that fall flat and stay there, and may be just a bit unsettling (as watching anyone beaten to death will be, no matter what uniform they happen to be wearing). It’s not a perfect film, no — and its status as Tarantino’s “best since Pulp Fiction” is highly debatable (this reviewer still prefers Jackie Brown). What it is, in the most basic sense, is a roller coaster ride captured to celluloid: It starts at a leisured pace, builds and builds, climaxes, starts over again, and finishes with a hell of a bang.
I’ve seen Inglourious Basterds three times now, and each time I find myself loving the film more and more. All faults aside, it manages to accomplish something most films only hope to aspire to (and rarely achieve): It makes you want to see it again right after, to pick up on what you worry you might have missed, to experience the highs and lows all over again as if you’re doing so with a fresh pair of eyes and a clear mind. Despite its myriad flaws it ingratiates itself with the viewer in such a way that you forgive and forget what would be death knells in lesser films. In other words, it’s a film that, viewed in the right state of mind, you really just can’t help but fall in love with. After Jackie Brown I must admit I worried we’d never see that side of Quentin again; Basterds proves it may still be too early to put his first three back on that pedestal, to sigh and say he’ll never reach those heights again so why even bother trying. In the end, Basterds proves above all else you can’t count Quentin out — he can still wow you, still floor you, and still make you experience joy and unabashed love for a film that marches proudly to its own beat, expectations and preconceptions be damned.
And in the end, it leaves one anxious to see what Tarantino will come up with next.
Inglourious Basterds is now playing nation wide, courtesy of The Weinstein Company.