Inglourious Basterds
Written and Directed by Quentin Tarantino (2009)
“You know somethin’ Uitivich, I think this just might be my masterpiece.”
And so does Aldo ‘The Apache’ close the movie that has occupied Quentin Tarantino on and off for the last decade: quite aptly, as it happens, for Basterds is undoubtedly a hugely accomplished piece of work. A wartime escapade, a revenge shlocker, a ‘European’ art-house piece … it’s sprawling, but I find it difficult to believe that anyone who loves cinema could fail to enjoy the (sometimes uneven, but always entertaining) ride.
As every other review has pointed out before mine, the show is stolen comprehensively by Christoph Waltz as the ‘Jew Hunter’ SS Colonel Hans Landa — performing with panache in German, French, English and briefly in Italian. Not content with simply providing a foil to Brad Pitt’s ‘Apache’, Landa is revealed to be just about as comprehensive a manifestation of contemptibility as you’re likely to see on screen. Not ‘evil’, per se, but amoral, colossally selfish and fiendishly clever. As a great man once said “Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it’s an ethos.”, and it’s Landa’s pure, undiluted self-interest that makes him a more compelling villain than Hitler himself.
Despite ostensibly being a period piece, Basterds plays fast and loose with real history, and this seems to have angered some people (who I can only assume failed to get the hint at the opening title card: ‘Once upon a time … in Nazi occupied France’) — it didn’t bother me one bit. It’s also fair to say that it’s not an evenly paced film, and it does lurch somewhat at certain points, though personally I find this (recurring) aspect of Tarantino’s work one of his more charming affectations.
Like many, I approached Inglourious with more than a little trepidation. The trailers and publicity implied a Kill Bill/Death Proof style chop-em-up that (while certainly great fun) would likely prove unsatisfying to those of us wishing for the razor sharp dialogue of Pulp Fiction or the slick understated genius of Jackie Brown to make a reappearance in the director’s work. I was surprised to find a much subtler, more considered piece of work hiding underneath the comic-book sneer of Pitt & co — the opening scene is a good as anything Tarantino’s done thus far — and there’s as much evidence of how great he can be here as you’ll find in any of his other movies.
I’m going to leave it until a third or fourth viewing before I decide for sure on it’s place in his oeuvre, but suffice to say that for now, I’m not dismissing Aldo’s closing words as misplaced confidence just yet.
