Hoped for Coming Soon from Criterion: House (Hausu)

March 6, 2010

#TBD (let’s hope!): House (Hausu)

1977, 87 minutes, Color, 1.37:1

Language: Japanese w/ English subtitles

Directed by Nobuhiku Obayashi

[A note on spoilers: None—spoiler free. It would be almost impossible to include a spoiler for this crazy cinematic concoction.]

[Note on the essay: At the rate I’m going, straying from the Criterion path as I have been of late, this adventure seems ever more quixotic. For this movie, however, I don’t think of it so much as a detour, but as a premonition of a future Criterion spine number.]

I simply cannot remember the last time I got such a kick from going to the movies. You know a film is good when the audience applauds it afterwards. Now, a film must really be something else when the audience claps at the beginning! House really, truly, hands down, without a doubt, is absolutely something else.

It was late January when I first learned of this freaky flick during a trailer before another freaky flick I caught at the Siskel, Lars von Trier’s Antichrist. And though I used the same term in reference to both films, they were both freaky in ways that are worlds apart from one another. Antichrist was a good. You’ll find those who strongly disagree, but I liked it. But, House, now that was a real treat!

The seed to see House was firmly planted by that trailer, and it took root when I read the following synopsis online:

Since first being unleashed on unsuspecting American cinephiles last summer, this 1977 Japanese haunted-house movie has erupted into a cult phenomenon whose utterly uncategorizable mixture of Grand Guignol, kiddie TV, psychedelia, and softcore nymphetphilia has had critics grasping for comparisons (a few examples: "An episode of Scooby Doo as directed by Dario Argento" "RINGU on a Pixy Stix-fueled hug-a-thon" "Sid and Marty Krofft meet Salvador Dalí"). Pouting over her widowed dad's new fiancée, teen princess Gorgeous takes her pals Melody, Prof, Kung Fu, Mac, Sweet, and Fantasy for a getaway at her aunt's gothic mansion, but both aunt and mansion have a voracious appetite for nubile girls. In his first feature, former experimental-film and TV-commercial director Obayashi uses blatant artifice, startling transitions, postmodern japes, and a pre-digital arsenal of goofy-gory f/x to concoct a film that is unsettling, enchanting, inventive, and relentlessly astonishing.

The deal was cemented. I noted the dates and marked the calendar to be sure not to miss it.

A weeklong run at the Gene Siskel Film Center, one of my favorite haunts, with more than a dozen showings provided plenty of opportunity to check it out. Eager as I was to see it, my amazing powers of procrastination gave me the ability to put it off until the very last showing. It was such a thrill that I have no doubt had I seen it earlier I would have surely gone again. And again. So, I suppose it may be a good thing I went later rather than sooner, otherwise the rent check may have turned to rubber. Difficult as it may be, gotta keep those priorities straight, right?

Words can't adequately describe House. If I were to try, I would only stumble over hyperbolic adjectives modified with hyperbolic adverbs. I’ve heard other comparisons, similar to those in the synopsis above, but there just ain’t nothin’ no one can say gonna make you understand. You just gotta see it to believe it. The best I can do is just try to describe the experience.

Anyone out there remember Crazy People with Dudley Moore? The one where he’s an ad man? Yeah, you know, the one where he buckles under the pressure and goes a bit flaky, tending too much towards truth in advertising? Don’t worry if you don’t, few probably do. In spite of it’s 38% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, I liked it (shocker, that, I know), but mostly because it came out in the midst of my college career and, majoring in advertising (really!), I found the movie more substantive than going to class. Aaaanyway, House made me think of Crazy People—well, I suppose just one scene in particular. One of Moore’s cut-to-the-chase ads came to his boss’s attention, played by J.T. Walsh at his apoplectic finest, who had this to say, “’Paramount Pictures presents The Freak. This movie won’t just scare you, it will fuck you up for life.’ I want to know how the fuck the word ‘fuck’ gets in the New York fucking Times!” That ad, with some leeway on the definition of “scary” could suffice for House. Ah, but I don’t think even the RedEye would print something like that, let alone the Sun-Times.

One thing is certain, seeing this film while under the influence of psychedelic drugs does indeed have the distinct possibility—probability, more accurately—of fucking you up for life. You may, if you’re lucky, come out of it relatively unscathed if it was only a couple of bong hits. But, dropping acid? Not a chance. No one would survive that. That’s not to say that this film couldn’t be made while on acid. I would have to imagine, however, that it’s the only way this film could have been made. Doubtless, I’m not the first to voice such a suspicion. It’s not to accuse the director, Nobuhiko Obayashi, of being an acid freak, I wouldn’t know, but I didn’t see Timothy Leary listed as an advisor in the credits. Whether Obayashi’s synapses were chemically polluted or not, I can envision him making this movie with gleeful abandon, his head bobbing back and forth in a metronomic manner to the beat of a catchy sing-songey tune, much like the “Shoes Maker” does in the film. I have seen nothing else of Obayashi’s work, but I intend to check out some of his stuff that I found at an intriguing website called UbuWeb, which will also require further investigation, soon.

Based on the trailer and synopsis, I fully expected enough cheese to make Kraft jealous, enough corn to require a plunger the next day (it’s a poo joke—you know how corn works!), and enough camp to make me think I was in the Boy Scouts again. I got what I went to see. And it was cheesy, corny, and campy in a wonderfully magical way! (See? Tripping over adjectives and adverbs is inevitable.)

Walking to the film center, I wondered what the crowd might be like. Being a bit of an obscure movie, and since it had already been playing for a week, I thought there might not be many people there to see it. If so, it wouldn’t be the first time I was one of only a handful of people in the audience. Sometimes it’s nice to feel you have the whole place to yourself. Then again, there are times when the more the merrier. There was no line at the box office window so I thought maybe my hunch wasn’t too far off the mark. There was a bit more of a buzz in the lobby than usual though. Maybe there was another movie starting, or one had just let out, I figured. Once into the crowd, I sensed a discernable vibe. People were talking, and it was about House. It was a good vibe, and I could tell it was going to be a good crowd to be a part of.

The usher directed me to the larger of the two theaters, which seats almost two hundred people. I was quite surprised to see it almost full. Flying solo as I was, I managed a prime seat even though I was a bit of a latecomer to the party. After all the stragglers wandered in, there were only a handful of seats empty, so it was pushing full capacity. It was certainly the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen there.

Sometimes a large crowd in a movie theater is not all that great. The munching and crunching, the whispering, the rustling of candy wrappers, harsh bumps to the back of the seat, can be too distracting to fully enjoy the show. But, when it’s something fun and the crowd is into it, the movie can be that much better for it.

The crowd was full of positive energy. There have been few times I’ve experienced such an atmosphere of anticipation before a movie such as this. Once would be a time in college when I ventured to the largest theater in town for a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I figured it was a rite of passage mandating I go at least once. Now, the sense of anticipation before the shows was similar, minus the dude passed out in his own vomit in the bathroom, but that’s where the similarity ended. Well, other than a cameo of a large pair of floating lips in House, leading me to believe that though few Americans have been exposed to House, that the Japanese, or at least Obayashi, have been exposed to Rocky Horror. At least I hope so, otherwise that’s just a one hell of an amazing coincidence. But, for comparisons, Rocky Horror pales next to House.

The audience was giddy with excitement when the lights went down and the curtains drew open. The fun began instantly—with the previews, even. One in particular that sucked us all in was lovely, mesmerizing, and cinematic: Music; soothing, hypnotic guitar chords. Spellbinding images; the desert, fog-shrouded rivers, lonely road into infinity, city lights, misty mountains. Entrancing people; People alone. People together. Young and old; lovers, artists, athletes, searchers, seekers. The emotions evoked; peaceful, forlorn, content, longing, hoping. The message; People on a journey. A life journey. A process. Discovery. Self-discovery. The question; “Does the person create the journey…” Oh yes, we were enrapt, we were in awe. “Or does the journey create the person?” What we’re seeing is profound; it will be enlightenment. “The journey is life itself.” Oh yes! We held our collective breath, waiting as one for the revelation of the movie masterpiece this looked to be. And then busted out laughing. Louis fucking Vuitton! Not a preview; a commercial!

And from there the laughter just kept rolling. The audience couldn’t contain its excitement. We chuckled when the bright letters announced “A… MOVIE,” clapped when the title hit the screen, and laughed when the animated “O” in “HOUSE” foreshadowed some of the fun that was in store for us. Immediately, almost every image, every cut, every visual effect, every flourish, every change of scene, every line of dialogue, elicited a chuckle or laugh.

I managed to fall in love with the characters. This film isn’t even an hour and a half long, but all seven of the girls, like the seven dwarves, have distinct personalities, as well as names to match, that make them memorable. Gorgeous is quite the princess, a little spoiled, but loved by everyone, who unwittingly leads her friend to The House. Melody can tickle the ivories with the best of them, though the ivories don’t quite tickle back. Prof is the brain wearing scholarly glasses and trying to deduce a solution to their predicament. Kung Fu has some moves that would make Bruce Lee envious (and she’d kick Chuck Norris’s ass in the blink of a cat’s eye!) to protect them from what they can’t be protected from. Mac has an insatiable appetite, but plump as she is, she may be the one to satiate other appetites. Sweet would do anything for anyone. And Fantasy is always dreaming that her Prince Charming will come riding to the rescue. The girls are adorable, and a big part of what gives this film its charm.

I have to believe that a majority of cult films aren’t made with the intent of being such. They just happen. And, that most of those that do set out with it as a goal tend to fail miserably and end up farcical at best. House, if it isn’t already, is certain to be a cult classic. Whether it was Obayashi’s goal or not to make a cult movie, he had to at least be aware he was making pulp, even having the characters reference that if they were in a horror movie, it was outdated. Oh, there were so many things that could have made this film unbearable, but made it delightful instead.

Looking back on it, I don’t know what I would think of this movie had I been alone when I watched it. The audience, I think, is what really brought it to life in such a wonderful way. I’m so glad I got to see it on the silver screen with a good group of people. It still has quite a few showings around the U.S. and Canada, and I would suggest that if it comes within a hundred miles of you to not hesitate checking it out. Hell, maybe even two hundred miles. It at all possible, at least try to take it in with a crowd to most fully appreciate the campy humor. It’s ripe for group fun.

Writing about the movie does make me wish that I could have seen it again before it blew outta town. It made a single appearance in Evanston after it was done at the Siskel, but sadly I wasn’t able to make it. As enthusiastic as the audience was downtown, I can only imagine what it would have been like on a college campus.

I see it’s a Janus film, and not only hope, but expect Criterion Collection to be issuing this freaky filmic funhouse some time in the not-to-distant future. Also, hoping like hell it sees the light of day as Blu-ray. If so, I see myself going to the point of harvesting my own organs to bring that technology to my home theater, humble as it is. Once this funky freak fest hits the market on DVD, it will be sure to earn its cult status bona fides in short order, that is if it hasn’t already. Though I think it’s prime for group viewings, I will dig the hell out of it on the home screen too. And, if Criterion does put this Japanese gem out, I’m expecting a shit-ton of special features, such as some samples of experimental films and television commercials I’ve heard Obayashi to be famous for before producing this anomaly.

I must give a big warning, however. This is NOT a first date movie, unless you’ve found that perfect someone who you are absolutely certain shares your eccentric cinematic tastes. It may not be quite a Travis Bickle movie-date faux pas, but it might make a second date a little more challenging—and you certainly won’t be allowed to choose the movie!

I spent a few moments surfing around the Internets looking for news on a (Criterion!) DVD/Blu-ray release of Hausu. All I could find was a tweet from Janus Films saying there will be a DVD, but only after the theatrical tour of the movie is over. I did also find an interesting site called Asian-Horror-Movies that has House (of Internet quality, mind you), in two parts. The subtitles are vastly different from what I saw on the silver screen the other night. They seemed more humorous in the theatrical version. It will be interesting to see what is done for subtitles if it does make it onto DVD. In the theatrical version, the main character was referred to as Gorgeous and the cat as Blanch, but online they were called Oshare and Snowflake, just as a couple examples. I also saw somewhere else that referred to Gorgeous/Oshare as Angel. Maybe it will get something like Criterion’s Throne of Blood, where there are two subtitle translations. That would be cool. (My imagination keeps making the DVD, should it ever come, bigger and better by the minute. Let’s hope they deliver!)

Yes, I had a great experience with House. I hope it’s not my last, for the fun of it, but also because I’m certain there is so much I missed due to sensory overload. The Gene Siskel Film Center has a holiday tradition of showing Hiroshi Teshigahara’s Antonio Gaudí every year. I think it would be nothing less than awesome if they were to make House an annual tradition too. I may have to see if there’s a suggestion box the next time I’m there.

Another Detour: Free Movies Website

February 28, 2010

Website: Indie Movies Online

Reviewed: Three Feature Length Films, and One Short Film

Well, I’ve heard mention lately of this thing online called Twitter. Always wanting to be the first one to the party when it comes to such things, I decided to check it out. It’s kind of cool. I’d explain a little more about it, but like with so many things in the early stages, I don’t want to jinx it by giving away too much about it. It looks like something that has potential, though, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you start to hear about it some time soon.

Anyway, while investigating this interesting phenomenon, I thought it might be fun to see what a gentleman who goes by the name of Roger Ebert might have to say. Some of his tweets have made the news in recent weeks, so I thought it would be interesting to see firsthand for myself. It turns out he is quite the avid tweeter. Just his tweets alone can keep you occupied for a quite some time, but if you follow the links he posts you will find a multitude of ways to while away the hours, most of them quite interesting.

One of his tweets told of Indie Movies Online, for a place to check out movies that are not only free, but legally so. In keeping with this current phase of procrastination I’m in, I did indeed check it out, testing the waters so to speak, by taking in three movies and a short film, all of quite disparate degrees of goodness (maybe my list of movies that I think ain’t all that hot will grow now—not that it’s a goal of mine).

[A note on spoilers: Yes, there are plenty, including one in the note on spoilers. This is a review of approximately three-and-a-quarter movies. There are sure to be a few spoilers here and there, but none that really give away the whole farm. As an example, I made an attempt at humor with a reference to The Crying Game in which I did give away a significant plot point, but I didn’t give away the Big Surprise (though I was mightily tempted when talking about Brian’s Johnson—oh my, I think I just secured myself a special place in hell, but I don’t know if it’s in the ring reserved for those guilty of egregious use of puns, or the ring for those soulless cinematic sinners who not only serve up spoilers, but do so in the warning about spoilers—and I suppose it’s too much to ask dispensation for style and creativity in brazenly combining the two offenses for a wicked double-whammy!).]

[A note on the note on spoilers: The parenthetical pun above really turns out to not be a pun at all. I have this little quirk of sometimes getting names that bear some sort of similarity mixed up. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson (explaining why I try not to date women with similar names, past or present), but apparently was able to mix up Jones and Johnson (which is a bit of a stretch, though much more understandable than mixing up, say, “Bonnie” and “Mariana,” so I suppose it’s an improvement). The guy’s name is Brian Jones, not Brian Johnson. Why did I go to the bother to explain the mistake, yet not correct it or erase it? Well, I do think that if the guy’s name really were Johnson that it would be somewhat funny. And what funniness may be lost in the fiasco is actually made up for, at least a little bit, by the funniness of making such a silly error. And, again, sorry if the lame joke really did spoil anything about The Crying Game for you—but, as old is the movie is, if you haven’t seen it yet, you probably already know all about it.]

Sex Sells: The Making of Touché (2005, Comedy, 96 minutes):

The first movie I checked out, Sex Sells: The Making of Touché, is a mockumentary on the making of an “adult film” director’s last hurrah, a pornographic production with aspirations to set a record for the world’s largest orgy ever captured on film. One of the stars is Priscilla Barnes, who is likely best known as Suzanne Somers’s replacement on “Three’s Company.” Though she was pushing fifty when this film was made, she wasn’t modest in portraying a porn star—and had no reason to be.

It appeared to be cheese-ball flick, but sex does sell, after all, and I was sold enough to at least give it shot. It did look like it was gonna suck, but it quickly grew on me (swear to god, none of those multiple puns were intended, and I didn’t even notice them until proofreading). It certainly has some redeeming values. The man with the plan of filming the über-orgy is named Chuck Steak (pronounced stee-ack), played by Mark DeCarlo, who I found to be rather reminiscent of Paul Reiser. Steak’s ambitious goal, as may be expected, is threatened to be derailed by a variety of mishaps and dramas. I thought the character was going to be way over-played, and was at moments, but for the most part was reined in enough to achieve the humor intended. He gets to shout out some fun lines when blocking out his pièce de résistance scene while under duress.

As far as mockumentaries go, it falls far short in its attempt. To compare it to This is Spinal Tap or Best in Show would be unfair, because that would be like bashing the local high school’s production of Hamlet for not being of the same caliber as that of The Royal Shakespeare Company (or comparing Mel Gibson to Laurence Olivier, for that matter), but you can give ‘em an “A” for effort. I guess where they fall the shortest, is that supposed documentarian, Bernard Heiman (pronounced hymen in an obvious play for a cheap laugh), played by Jay Michael Ferguson, is too much a part of the story. He’s in almost every scene, plays a key part in the plot (which there actually is), diminishing the whole documentary feel almost completely, but it still works.

If there is any one thing that makes this flick worthwhile, it would be a clip of an “old” movie shown when the cast gathers to reminisces about their early days in the industry. It’s a grainy segment of light saber dueling nymphos in a Star Wars rendering aptly titled Star Whores. It’s a wonderfully cheesy ode to vintage seventies porn, and any sci-fi geek will love the tributes to “Space: 1999,” “Lost in Space,” “Star Trek,” “Battlestar Galactica,” and of course Star Wars, complete with “Darth Vibrator” and cameos by some familiar but very well-endowed robots. A light saber serves dual purpose, prompting the question, “Can you feel the Force glowing inside you?”

It certainly has its lowbrow humor, such as what purpose pineapple juice may serve, and a man looking for a world record with his exceptional tool of the trade (yeah, lowbrow humor begets lowbrow humor). But it’s the type of humor I can appreciate and they’re not too far off the mark.

All in all, in spite of its shortcomings, this movie does achieve what it sets out to accomplish, whether or not the director achieves his swan song goal (which does require a significant suspension of disbelief considering that orgies of greater magnitude than the supposedly epic-size one offered in the movie can readily be found in the back alleys of the Internet, shot on a cell phone no less—or so I’ve heard, anyway). And, though there is nudity it is by no means gratuitous based on the foundational premise of the movie. This flick is a nice diversion if you’re looking for one.

The Phantom of the Opera (1998, Drama, 99 minutes):

Nope, not that Phantom of the Opera. Or that one. Yes, there you go, that one there. The one from 1998, directed by Dario Argento starring Asia Argento and Julian Sands. It’s the one that tried to play up more of the horror aspect of the oft-told story, but just ended up being scary, in a rather more dreadful than horrific kind of way.

I knew I shouldn’t have clicked on this one, but my morbid curiosity got the better of me and I went there anyway. Then, once witnessing the train wreck, I couldn’t turn away. The setting is Paris, populated mostly by Italians, and everyone speaks perfect English, albeit with a wide array of accents. From there, it just gets weirder.

For this translation, the Phantom’s mask, the fame of which is probably rivaled only by the mask of Jason Voorhees, is nowhere to be seen. This Phantom is not disfigured but, rather, dashing. Well, supposedly, anyway. Instead, Julian Sands just comes off as kinda creepy lookin’. He has the stringy-haired look of the guy in the dilapidated house at the end of the street who does little to assuage the rumors of a possible pedophiliac penchant. (But, you can rest assured the Phantom is not a pedophile, for that position is already filled by a fat bourgeois pig who lures the pubescent ballerinas-to-be into his snare with chocolates—and meets with subterranean vigilante justice—of phantasmal variety—as a result. No, the Phantom’s perversion of choice is not children, but one that is no less disturbing.) Instead of bearing a physical affliction, the Phantom’s misanthropic attitude is rooted in a supernatural bond with the rats that raised him.

Inexplicably abandoned as a child, he was tossed, Moses-like, into the river flowing beneath the opera house where he was rescued by rats that chose not to eat his face (which they probably should have). Instead they raised him, clothed him in dandy attire, taught him perfect English, how to play the organ, how to rip out a woman’s tongue with his teeth (yeah, that’s one way to make the bitch shut her screamin’ yap), how to impale a man on a stalagmite (the big, long pokey rocks that stick up from the ground) and, oh yeah, mental telepathy. In case there was any misinterpretation, blood red words on a black background and a melodramatic voice spell things out, “Thus, by chance, a mysterious bond is forged between the abandoned child and the inhabitants of darkness,” so that the situation is crystal clear. The mysterious bond also means the Phantom has it in for the Quasimodo-looking opera house rat catcher and his midget (little person?) assistant who is charged with gleefully separating the tails from the rats to pickle them in formaldehyde as both trophies and a running tally of the rodents exterminated. On a side note, there is moral to be learned here, too. Although by all appearances and actions, the soulless murderer of rats doesn’t possess the mental acuity to count his own balls and get the same answer twice (with the assumption that it’s not for lack of trying), he is able to build an H.G. Wells-lookin’ contraption capable of wholesale slaughter of the long-tailed vermin. Later on, Asia Argento’s Christine spies the Phantom at “play” with some of the rats in a way that strongly suggests his mysterious bond transcends normal creepy to super-icky-creepy. It wasn’t explicitly shown, so that interpretation of his relationship with the rats is left somewhat to the imagination, but hardly at all. And, if I am misinterpreting the scene I really need to get my imagination some intense therapy, though I believe it may be Dario Argento who is in need of some sort of therapy for creating this scene of man-rat affection in the first place.

The movie has dialogue. It’s not good, but it has it. It also has some special effects. They’re not good, but it has them.

This movie does have its good qualities, too, such as a beautiful sets and costumes. The opera house is impressive, but not quite so much as the bathhouse, complete with hookahs that apparently produce smoke from sources other than regular tobacco, and extraordinarily voluptuous (read, very rotund), and equally immodest, patrons and staff.

Asia Argento is probably the only thing that makes the movie endurable at all. She does a marvelous job of inexplicably swinging from true love to pure hate and back to love that is so pure it can only be expressed in bloodcurdling screams and sobs. And, you know, she’s purty.

I think it would be fair to say it’s a bad movie. I guess the reason I hesitate to say it sucks is because it is right on the cusp of so-bad-it’s-good. I did see that there are two versions of this movie floating around out there, the one I saw, and the director’s cut, which runs about seven minutes longer. I going to guess that those seven minutes are comprised mostly of the tawdry bits that were deemed too salacious for American sensibilities. I would go out on the limb even further to guess that within those minutes lies the secret to why the bodice of Christine’s dress was torn asunder and her sleeve ripped when she arose alone from the Phantom’s bed after demonstrating his “courting skills” (perhaps the planting of the seeds for a sequel, one can only hope). As it is, it’s not so bad that I could bear to sit through it once, but it might be what’s in those missing minutes that determines if it’s so bad that it’s good enough to endure again. That’s not to say it takes nudity to make a movie good, but in the case of this movie, coupled with Asia Argento’s attributes, it sure can’t hurt.

Stoned (2005, Adaptation, 102 minutes):

Long, long… long, long, long… l-o-n-g, long ago. I mean like a really fuckin’ long time ago, there was an era on this planet called Earth when its terrestrial inhabitants had yet to be acquainted with the, ah, uniquely striking visages of the Rolling Stones. (Which reminds me, did you know Mick Jagger’s daughter just had a birthday? She turned 72! Rotflmfao!!!)

Oh, before I go on, I must beg forgiveness for the sophomoric humor. I’m operating on very little sleep, so that’s making me a little slappy. Despite the cheap jabs at the Rolling Stones, and there are more to come, I say with all seriousness that I do indeed like them, as I’m sure will be made a little more evident whenever I get around to reviewing Gimme Shelter. For now, you’ll just have to take my word for it. With the lack of sleep coupled with the fact that I just watched some very cheesy movies, I am in quite the mood for pedestrian jokes, and really have no qualms about it. Now, back to the riot wagon…

Before there was Sir Mick Jagger and his undead “partner” Keith Richards, who have become the poster boys for immortal rock-stardom, there was Brian Jones, without whom there would be no Rolling Stones. It was he, who through blind luck brought about the genesis of the band that defies death (in a 2004 Blender.com scientific study, Keith Richards’s projected year of death was 1995—though I suppose it would be fair to point out they projected Ol’ Dirty Bastard had another twenty-three years before meeting his maker but ended up going only nine months before shaking hands with the Grim Reaper, and they over-estimated Micheal Jackson by one-quarter of a century, so either we write it off as total hooey or go with the obvious and apply those lost years to Keith Richards with the confidence that he will certainly live to be 108, rocking every day along the way), apparently pulled the band’s iconic name out of his ass in a panic when on the phone and had to come up with something quick and pilfered it from the title of a track on a Muddy Waters LP that happened to be lying about (I looked that up and found as many variations of how the name came to be as sources I could find; I went with what was stated in Wikipedia’s article on Brian Jones, all others be damned), acted the primadonna for a while, realized he couldn’t carry Mick and Keith’s collective jock, further increased his musical and managerial inadequacy by turning his brain into the proverbial eggs that fried in the proverbial skillet of drugs, (though I haven’t confirmed that Mr. Jones partook of the mighty heroin, Rachael Leigh Cook made a pretty good case against smack, too, and “Robot Chicken” goes the extra yard to erase any possible remaining doubts that drugs=bad), dabbled in debauchery and a bit of domestic violence, lost his girlfriend to Keith Richards (go figure), got himself mired in a legal morass that prevented him from touring the U.S. with the band, which led to his firing by Mick and Keith, and then drowned to death at the age of twenty-seven, apparently in a spiteful attempt to play contrarian to Keith’s unlikely longevity. His passing was ruled “death by misadventure,” which I think is Limey-speak for “accidental.” Ah, but, was it?

The thrice-aptly title Stoned (1. It’s a play on the Rolling Stones. Get it? It’s even more appropriate because it’s in the past tense and the main character is dead, so he was a Stone, but is no more, ergo, “stoned”; 2. It’s a play on being stoned, as in the dude was stoned to the bejeezus-belt, as Carl Spackler so eloquently puts it; and 3. It’s a play on the manner of his death—found at the bottom of his swimming pool—as if he sank like a stone, though I think that meaning may not have been intentional) is a movie about the life—and death—of Brian Jones, played by Leo Gregory. Take all the pieces laid out above, throw in the house where Winnie-the-Pooh was born, a hot ex-girlfriend (the one who bails on Jones to strut her stuff under his nose with Keith) played by Monet Mazur, a super cute current girlfriend played by Tuva Novotny, a chauffeur who borrowed his glasses from Drew Carey, played by David Morrissey, a couple of guys who kinda almost resemble Mick and Keith who really don’t have more than bit parts in this flick so don’t really need to be acknowledged by their real names, and an impressionable construction worker who looks a little like Stephen Rea when he played the IRA guy in The Crying Game who broke the number one rule of terrorist kidnappings: don’t get emotionally involved with your kidnapping victims ‘cause it makes it that much harder to execute them when your demands aren’t met (which follows the same logic for not naming the turkey designated to be the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving dinner trimmings, though without the macabre irony of having the turkey mowed down by a rafter—turkey-speak for flock—of turkeys when it blindly flees once you find you ain’t got the cajones it takes to drop the axe), named Frank Thorogood, played by Paddy Considine, who becomes a bit of buddy, butler (I hope I didn’t give the ending away by comparing this flaky fellow to a butler—saying “the butler did it” is just too cliché), and plaything for Brian Jones who likes to mind-fuck Frank for shits and giggles from time to time.

The movie starts with a seemingly pointless shot of Brian in one of those goofy red London telephone booths making a phone call and booking a gig. I suppose it is in order to establish Jones’s role of importance in the band’s nascent stages. Then, for the opening credits, it rolls into what I gather is supposed to resemble archival footage of the young Stones performing at said gig, complete with camera flashes leading to temporary still images of each of the band mates that I gather are to show how they got actors who almost resemble the actual band members, all the while a cover of “Little Red Rooster” is being played by a band that almost resembles the Rolling Stones doing a cover of “Little Red Rooster.” It all does very well in confirming any suspicions one may have that every aspect of the movie is fake. But, that’s cool, because it is a movie after all, and one should expect fakery. It then jumps right to Brian Jones’s lifeless body being dragged from the pool. As two chicks and a dude try to pull him from the pool with the all the grace of a monkey fucking a football, the camera drifts to a statue of a kid sitting on a log reading a book. Since it’s later revealed that the house once belonged to A.A. Milne, I assume that the boy with the book is Christopher Robin, and it is supposed to highlight the poignancy of such a tragedy taking place on the same site where such a loveable creature as Winnie-the-Pooh was created. As they try to revive him there is a montage of the carefree days of yesteryear, I suppose Brian’s life flashing before our eyes, such as driving through the mountains with his mates, naked chicks, sexual fetishes, dropping acid, painted faces, and a goat having its throat slit in an apparently ritual manner that don’t get taught in Sunday School. So the movie is off to quite a rollicking start. Then the intrigue really begins to set in: the gumby-looking, pasty white dude with bad hair, even by late-sixties standards, finally goes to phone for help. But, why does he call who he does? Archival radio and television broadcasts announce the death of Brian Jones in very stiff manner to show just how square people still were and to emphasize just how big the Stones will eventually be even though they are all still clueless to this fact. The announcer with the last word says that “the cause of death is still unknown.” Ah, but will it still be unknown to the discerning viewer ninety-some minutes later, at film’s end?

To aid in solving the mystery, the story helpfully goes three months back into the past so we can get to know Brian and the rest of the key players. The rest of the movie is a bunch of flashbacks intercut with the past-of-three-months-ago to show all the events of Brian’s life that led him to be in the state he was in at the time of his death as well as to establish man, method, and motive for what may not be such a “misadventurous” mortality after all. Keep a close eye on things as they are revealed, layer by layer and level by level, and you may just be able to figure it out for yourself.

I must warn all of the big Rolling Stones fans in the house that I was unable to detect a single note of actual Rolling Stones music being played in the movie, and the soundtrack information I located seems to confirm this belief. But, no worries, what this movie about the founding member of the Rolling Stones lacks in Rolling Stones music is compensated for by more than a modicum of nudity. And, they were kind enough to think of the ladies in the audience, too, for there is also man-nudity! More than just a fleeting cameo that raises the question, did I just see what I thought I saw? The twigs and berries get enough screen time to raise the question, why would Brian’s girlfriend really leave him for Keith?

Okay, now I gotta come clean. It certainly comes off like I’m dissing this poor movie big time. Yeah, I admit it, I am, but it is very unfair to do so. It’s just a symptom of the sardonic mood I was in when I started writing about it. In all actuality, it is quite a worthwhile flick. It’s not a great flick, I mean there’s a reason it didn’t draw any Oscar nominations, but it did get nominated for the Golden Hitchcock (seriously!) at the Dinard British Film Festival (don’t let the title fool ya, it’s French!) and it received not one, but two Empire Awards nominations. And, it is still free to watch at Indie Movies Online, so what do you really have to lose other than 102 irretrievable minutes of your life? I mean, seriously, if you’ve read this far you have more than enough time on your hands, so don’t go getting all indignant and self important now. Instead, just enjoy an interesting take on what happened to that one guy who started the Rolling Stones, but has been dead for four decades.

Traffic Warden (2004, Comedy, 11 minutes):

My last full sample from the free movie feast was a charming little ditty called Traffic Warden. I think the tag on the site sums it up best: “A comic short – in fact, a bite-size romantic comedy – in which a serendipitous series of events leads a traffic warden (played by David Tennant) to find true love.”

It uses dialogue most sparingly. By my count there were three spoken words, maybe four—they were spoken so quickly it was hard to tell if a contraction was used or if they were two separate words. Other than that, the expressions and looks speak volumes. The musical score really adds to the spirit of this sweet short. It’s something that can bring a smile to your face when you’re looking for one, or maybe to unwind with something pleasant before going to bed.

I suppose I do have two caveats about this short film. If you really love goldfish, this movie may not be for you, because the cute little buggers do suffer a tad bit of trauma, but it is tastefully done and does serve to advance the plot. And, if you really hate goldfish, this movie may not be for you, because they are just so dad-blamed cute that it would be sure to get your ire up if you’re a true hater. I guess there is a third caveat, and that would be if you watch this with your children you may want to shield their eyes at the end, because I’m not quite sure, but I think that shot of the tower may be a subliminal sexual reference. Maybe not, but better safe than sorry.

And, all kidding aside, I really did enjoy this short. Even the opening credits were done in a cute and refreshing manner. Enjoy!

Final Analysis of Indie Movies Online:

It is a cool and fun site. The free movies are not “for a short time only” and there is no limit to how many or how often you can watch them. There doesn’t seem to be an astronomic selection in the library right now, but it appears that in the few days since I discovered it new ones have been added. I’m sure there will be a dud or two in there, but I’m sure that they will be compensated for with some gems.

Speaking of duds, I just remembered, there was one that I tried, but couldn’t get through the first scene. On here it’s called Sleeping Dogs Lie, but goes by the aka Stay at IMDB. It’s written and directed by the one and only Bobcat Goldthwait. I’m not typically one to shy away from the cruder forms of humor, but wasn’t able to make it through the opening scene. Anyone else wanna give it a try, and then see if I can be enticed to give it another shot myself?

I was happy to see that they had the short film Creature Comforts (along with other Aardman shorts) available. It’s something a friend of mine showed me several years ago, and I liked it so much that I bought the DVD. Sadly, I had to give up the DVD as part of the settlement, so it’s nice to see it again. I heartily suggest giving it a look.

I really liked what this website is all about. It appears to be all above board as far as legality. There is no registration necessary, but registration allows access to some features that aren’t available otherwise. I do intend to register. Something like this is almost too good to be true, but it’s there, and highly recommended.

Detour: Inglourious Basterds

February 24, 2010

#N/A: Inglourious Basterds

2009, 153 minutes, Color, 2.40:1

Language: English, French, German

Directed by Quentin Tarantino

[A note on spoilers: Super-low grade]

I had to take a break from the Criterion Collection for a moment because of a pressing matter. One of my roommates moved out and took Inglourious Basterds with her. So, it was as good of a time as any to watch it again. And, even though it departs from the Criterion mission I don’t see any reason not to post about it. After all, in my first post I said I was going to make some detours, and this is just the first of what is sure to be many.

For me, movies are typically a fun experience. I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie I thought sucked. It’s not that I like every movie I see, really, but I do try to take something good from them. I mean, if I’m going to put in the time to watch something, I don’t want it to be for nothing. If there is one I’ve seen in the past few years that I absolutely did not like, I must have put it out of my mind. Or maybe it has just been that long since I’ve seen one that I truly have forgotten it. Sure, there are things I don’t like about some of the movies I’ve seen, but those are typically small things that don’t diminish an overall pleasurable experience. I suppose I have been pretty selective in my choices, and that may explain why it has been such a long time since I’ve seen something that didn’t float my boat.

Well, I began to think that there just has to be something I haven’t liked, so I took a few moments and looked in the corners and under the couch of my memory banks to find there are some bad ones, and near misses, that flicker to mind. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked too hard, but at least those not-so-great experiences are few and far between.

First, I have to go back over ten years to The Thin Red Line. I almost walked out of the theater on that one. But, more often than not, it’s just a frame of mind that determines if I enjoy a movie or not. From the trailers I had seen beforehand, I had envisioned something akin to Saving Private Ryan, and it was absolutely nothing like what I had expected. I have considered giving it another try, in a different frame of mind, just to see if I can more fully appreciate it. It wouldn’t be the first time a movie I despised grew on me. Even though I haven’t given it a chance for over a decade, and don’t have any active plans to do so any time soon, should the opportunity arise without having to put myself out to do so, like going to the store and renting a copy of it, I think I will give it that chance. That could be another ten years or more, but at least I’m open to it. It may just turnaround on me.

An example of a movie that did make good on a one-eighty was No Country for Old Men. My first experience with it was not pleasurable, to say the least. Well, at least not as far as the film is concerned. Though I thought the movie sucked, it was at least accompanied by some amusing circumstances. My mom and I share very similar tastes in movies, so we usually respect each other’s recommendations. She called me one day to tell me how awesome this movie was. I suppose I should have been a little suspicious that her recommendation was the only purpose of the call and not just something that came up during the course of conversation in a routine call just to shoot the shit; she called me specifically to tell me how great this movie was and that I should see it right away. Well, instead of suspicions being raised, I figured that for her to call just to tell me about it must because the movie really is that good. Besides, I am a fan of Tommy Lee Jones, Josh Brolin, and the Coen brothers, and she was only confirming the mountains of rave reviews this flick had already garnered. My guard was completely down. If there was any indication that she was leading me down a crooked path into a devious trap, it should have been when she told me that I should find a date and take her to this movie, it’s that good. Ah, but I was too gullible. I took her at her word.

There was someone I had been seeing for a short time and we were looking for something to do for the upcoming weekend. I told her of my mom’s suggestion and we went to the movie with high expectations. And the movie lived up to those expectations. Right up until the very last second before the screen went black and the credits started to roll. We sat there in the darkness with the rest of the audience. No one moved. The theater was thick with stunned silence. No one spoke, but all our thoughts screamed in unison, “What the fuck!” It was minutes before anyone moved. We were all waiting for some sort of closure, and finally realized it wasn’t coming once the screen went dark and the lights came up. The only noise is the theater was the electric whine of the motor drawing the curtains closed. It wasn’t until we had stumbled out of the lobby and into the darkness when the cold blast of winter air snapped us awake from our shock. I finally came to grips with the harsh reality that I had been duped. By my own mother. Her prank was good, though, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I did have to give the old broad props, and oh how pleased she was with herself to learn her diabolic scheme had come to fruition so flawlessly!

It was a good flick that had lived up to the hype, except for that damned ending—or, more accurately, complete lack of ending. The old woman’s trickery aside, she would be soon forgiven, but the anti-climax of such grand proportions was unforgivable. I hated that fucking movie because of it. As well as all of the critics and talking heads and reviewers who heaped praise and accolades on this movie as if it were the best thing to happen to cinema since color.

Well, for a while anyway, until some things began to sink in a little bit. Maybe all those people weren’t so full of shit, I began to think once my anger subsided. I decided I should give it another chance. I did, but not until it started airing on the cable movie channels. I’d already dropped too much dough on it, doubly compounded because of taking a date, and wasn’t going to spend another dime on it just in case it still sucked on a repeat viewing. I was right to give it another shot, for knowing what to expect of the conclusion, it really is a great movie. After reading the novel, too, it became even more satisfying. It redeemed itself so much that I began to consider it one of my favorites. I had the hi-def-super-cineplex package of movie channels and No Country for Old Men became almost as ubiquitous as Shawshank Redepmtion ever had. Regardless, I never tired of it and any time I happened across it during a mindless surfing session I became transfixed and watched it until it ended or I had to pry myself away to do something silly like go to work.

One flick I recall that I just could not bear at all is Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny, a letdown of near-epic proportions. I have no shame in saying I’m a big fan of the D. I had their eponymously titled CD and their DVD, The Complete Masterworks, both of which I played over and over, even when most inappropriate, such as screening the DVD after Thanksgiving dinner. The cousins and the crazy uncle appreciated it for the musical, profane, and gross-out comedic gold that it is. The rest of the aunts and uncles, not so much. I think the librarian aunt was deeply disturbed by it, and probably never will forgive me. But, since it was with a clan of former in-laws, I suppose any harm it may have caused is moot.

So, yeah, there was the CD and the DVD, oh, and all the swag I picked up when my nephew and I saw them live at the Masonic Temple in Detroit. The boy and I loved it, laughing until our faces hurt. Since they were touring for The Pick of Destiny and I had such a blast during the show, I couldn’t help but pick up the CD, though the tracks I had already heard were lackluster compared to their earlier stuff. Though that CD hasn’t seen the light of day in a very long time, I still wear the “Cleveland Steamers” hoodie I picked up at the show with pride. It was inevitable that I would see the movie. Even though I was still riding high from the live show, I was dubious enough about the movie to not part with any cash to see it at the theater and patiently waited until it made its appearance on one of the more obscure cable movie channels.

Boy, am I glad I waited. As I said, I believe the pleasure derived from a movie is very much dependent upon the frame of mind when going into it. After so much exposure to the Masterworks DVD, as well as attending a live show where the souvenir stand sold “The Official Tenacious D Cum Rag…everything else is just a cum rag” (with pictures of rainbows and unicorns), it shouldn’t be hard to think I would have an idea of the proper frame of mind this type of filmic fare would require. And considering I had actually bought “The Official Tenacious D Cum Rag…everything else is just a cum rag” (with pictures of rainbows and unicorns) of my own (for a conversation piece, of course, and it did indeed spark a few interesting conversations) I thought I could easily achieve and maintain the proper frame of mind—even without the help of mind altering substances. I was horribly mistaken. I don’t think any amount herbal assistance would have helped. I bailed out shortly after they embarked on their quest for the heavy metal equivalent of the Holy Grail, which was far too long into the movie. I don’t know if they ever succeeded in fulfilling their quest, nor do I care. But, I would like those twenty minutes back. This is one movie that will never be considered for a second chance. Not even if I was hitting the bong like it was welcome week for my first sophomore year of college (ah, lost memories!). Those first few dreadful minutes of that movie was pretty much when something in my relationship with Tenacious D changed. The romance was over, like when your girlfriend thinks you’ve reached a level of familiarity where it’s okay for her to come in and make a dooty while you’re taking a shower. You still love her, but it’s just never quite the same after that moment. You’ll always have fond memories of those happy and carefree days of a budding romance, but the magic is forever gone. That’s what Pick of Destiny did for Tenacious D.

Why do I feel compelled to prattle on about three movies I watched no recently than three years, and even more than a decade, ago? Good question. I only wish I had a good answer. I suppose, really, I was trying to make a point. Though I’ve only written about a handful of movies so far, I have gushed about all of them. And for the movies in my line of sight, stretching out to the horizon, it doesn’t appear that I will deviate too much from the established MO any time soon. The same goes for my diversion from the quixotic Criterion quest that spawned this bastard (pun intended) blog post. I guess I just wanted to establish that they don’t all ring my bell, and I figured if I was going to take the effort to drag a dead horse onto the path that I may as well beat the hell out of it, Bear Jew style.

And now, the feature presentation:

Inglourious Basterds is a flick I’ve looked forward to seeing ever since I saw its trailer played at the end of last year’s Oscar ceremony. I’ve enjoyed all of Quentin Tarantino’s movies until now, and by the looks of it this one wasn’t going to break tradition. Unfortunately, I missed the chance to see it in the theater, but did get my shot at it the day the DVD was released when the roommate mentioned above brought it home from Blockbuster—apparently on some bastardized (pun intended) version of rent-to-own. I don’t know how much the experience was diminished by not seeing it on the silver screen, but it certainly did well enough on the plasma screen to tickle my fancy.

Now, the thing about a Tarantino flick is that it’s a Tarantino flick. It’s nearly impossible to talk about his movies without talking about him. He’s pretty much a love ‘im or hate ‘im kind of guy. I don’t hesitate to say that I’m listed in the love ‘im column, though falling far short of the fanboy zealotry that some crazy bastards (pun intended) have for the guy. The man certainly has his detractors. I’ve read a few reviews of the film, and with those who give it high ratings, I do agree. And for those who dog it, well, I really can see where most of them are coming from. He ain’t everyone’s cup o’ tea. But, really, when you think about it, who is? Anyway, as I was saying, Inglourious Basterds is Tarantino through and through. And I like it.

Inglourious Basterds is a fun flick. It’s everything I expect in a Tarantino film. Set in France, during World War II, it tells the tale of a rogue group of Jewish-American GI’s on a mission of wreaking havoc and instilling fear in the Nazi forces and leaders, and of a young French-Jewish woman on a vengeful quest of her own. It does so with Tarantino flair, and penchant for mashing up multiple genres. He tears the pages from the history books, burns them, and re-writes the story to his own liking. If nothing else, you gotta admire the balls.

Whenever I come into a Tarantino film, it’s with the expectation of watching a Tarantino film, chock-full of homage, violence, and dialogue. The man loves film, and that love shows in those of his own. I can only imagine the glee with which he makes his movies.

I am a bit of a sucker for dialogue-driven movies. It usually does need to be with suitable frame of mind though. Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise, as an example, is one that I can happen across and watch it, almost spellbound, or that I just cannot bear to sit through for more than a few minutes before turning it off. It depends on the mood I’m in. A Tarantino film wouldn’t be a Tarantino film if it weren’t heavily laden with dialogue. It is an aspect of his films that gains him much praise as well as much criticism. When it comes to his movies, even if I wasn’t in the mood for lots of dialogue, I quickly get in the mood. To pop in one of his films only to check out a particular scene typically means I will end up watching the entire thing.

Inglourious Basterds is not an exception of being fueled by lots of dialogue. It’s not quite as full of quotable repartee as Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction, but dialogue is definitely a keystone of this film. Dialogue punched up with profanity, if done well, can be almost poetic. Brad Pitt’s Lt. Aldo Raine certainly exemplifies this characteristic (even if he pales in comparison to the true virtuoso of this fine art, Samuel L. Jackson). Though profanity-laced banter has its detractors, and respectfully so, it is something that I can get a kick out of. I do find it impressive that Inglourious Basterds can pull off Tarantino’s trademark dialogue in multiple languages, too. Though, it may be contrived, I also like the purposeful faults and inaccuracies within the subtitles, such as not translating some words or even using “immigrate” when “emigrate” would have been correct.

Another contentious aspect of Tarantino’s films is the violence. If there is any one thing that has been most consistent in his works, it would be the violence. I remember seeing a body count for this one somewhere, but can’t locate it again. Regardless, it’s high. I certainly can see where people would take issue with the violence. I am not a fan of violence—that is real-life violence—myself. I can be easily sickened when reading in the news of an actual event of violence. I almost used the adjective “senseless,” but I believe that goes without saying for most violence is innately senseless. Movie violence, however, does not carry the same impact with me. That may sound contradictory, and it is hard to defend, but seeing movie violence, even that as over the top as depicted in Inglourious Basterds, other Tarantino flicks, as well non-Tarantino movies such as Goodfellas and the like, just doesn’t carry the same impact of what makes the news. Movie violence has its favorable qualities.

The violence in Inglourious Basterds is extreme, to be sure. I have come across some online discussions and can’t help but smile when some of the QT zealots try to mitigate the amount of violence, using phrases like, “but there’s only…,” or “you don’t see…,” “it was just a few…,” in their arguments. Nah, I can’t really see the validity in such arguments. It doesn’t matter if there was a pillow covering the gore, a man was being repeatedly stabbed in the face with a very long and very sharp blade. I don’t try to condemn or justify the violence in this film; it is a staple of Tarantino’s filmography, take it or leave it. I do wince (more than once), however, every time I see the infamous baseball bat scene, but is part of what makes Inglourious Basterds the movie it is. Now, whether movie violence de-sensitizes people to a point that facilitates, promotes, or glorifies real-life violence is a discussion for other venues. The same goes for the morality of the Basterds in comparison to that of the Nazis. I just take this film as fictional fare and entertaining in that purpose despite any discussions of violence or morality it may prompt. Hell, I don’t know why I went through all the bother of trying to put it in some sort of social context. In this movie, the shit is fuckin’ fun! Give ‘em hell, boys. Light ‘em up! In such a grandiose re-writing of history, there is no reason not to go balls out.

Concerning homage versus plagiarism arguments, I also appeal to blissful ignorance. Ripped off or not, I see Tarantino taking something already established and making it his own. He makes no secrets where his ideas come from and to what or whom he is paying tribute, or imitating, or copying, or whatever terminology may apply. It would be something completely different if he did try to hide those facts, but he is at least open about it. And for someone with a limited attention span and affection (or affliction) for instant gratification as I am, a pastiche gives more bang for the buck than culling through the original objects of the homage. Western, World War II, exploitation, documentary, seventies schlock, etc.—like the old Prego spaghetti sauce ads said, “it’s in there.” And it is all mixed together very well.

This movie’s biggest strength is the opening scene. Pulled right from the screen of spaghetti westerns, it has all the feel of a dusty Mexican village with the bad guys fast approaching. It opens with a great cinematic feel, even on the home screen. It’s no poor south of the border village, though, but a gorgeous and lush European autumnal vista complete with French dairy cows. The whole scene of the conversation between the SS officer and the dairy farmer is both absorbing and tense. It’s a scene I can watch over and over—and have.

If there is any fault I find with the movie, it would be with the Basterds themselves. They just don’t have enough screen time. It is a shortcoming that hasn’t been lost on some of the reviewers whose posts and articles I’ve read. It is an intriguing band of characters, but there isn’t much of a chance to really get to know them, and only about half of them, at all.

Brad Pitt makes the role of Lt. Aldo Raine fun to watch and listen to and it is his scenes that I like to go back to almost as often as the first scene. As far as the rest of the Basterds that have any significant role, I most like those of Cpl. Wilhelm Wicki, played by Gedeon Burkhard, and Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz, played by Til Schweiger. They both carry off an unconcerned aloofness that delivers the “don’t give a fuck” cool that they’re supposed to. It was the scene where a German prisoner is being coerced into giving away the position of another German patrol that is my favorite of Wicki’s. He translates, sparsely and unemotionally, between Raine and the prisoner. I like how the camera makes quick moves from character to character as they each speak in turn, but only doing so for a short enough time that it doesn’t become annoying. The seventies-style intro for Stiglitz brings me a chuckle every time I see it. The two of them together in the basement bar scene also gives them both a chance to make some significant contribution to the film. I could have done with more from all three of these characters.

Eli Roth’s Sgt. Donnie Donowitz makes little more than a cameo appearance. He does okay as the “Bear Jew” with the death-wielding baseball bat. His post-cranial bashing rant is his high-point, though he does have a part to play in the grand finale. Any more of Donowitz would have been an overdose, though, so that was well done.

B.J. Novak as Pfc. Utivich gets a few lines, but only comes off as “that kid from ‘The Office’ in a Tarantino movie.” Two others only get a line or two, and there are a couple who I don’t think speak a single word. In spite of their titular (I love saying “titular,” it’s just so, well, titillating) role, the Basterds provide little more than comic relief, as gory and bloody as it may be. I have heard some talk of Tarantino maybe making a prequel, which I assume would develop the Basterds more, and that would be something I would look forward to seeing some day.

Inglourious Basterds most certainly draws deep from the testosterone well as there are only two women of any significance. Diane Kruger is the gorgeous double agent and famous German actress Bridget von Hammersmark. I’ve only seen her before in Wicker Park and find her captivating. The true heroine of the movie, Shosanna Dreyfuss, is played by a lovely Mélanie Laurent. Shosanna has the biggest and most personal axe to grind that any of the characters may have, sees a golden opportunity to scheme revenge herself, and seizes it. Though she’s a diminutive figure, she is a domineering force. And, in keeping with Tarantino’s fetish, both these women’s bare feet get a fair share of screen time (more so than a couple of the Basterds, even).

From the roster of bad guys it is SS Col. Hans Landa who stands out above all others. Christoph Waltz does a hell of a job of stealing the show. Landa’s villainy knows no depths, and it’s a rare thing when an actor can portray such a despicable character while still making him likable in some manner. With the Oscars just around the corner, Waltz is the talk of the town. Even without seeing any of his competitors, the hype around Waltz is so great that I believe him to be a shoo-in to win. Or, as Landa would say, “That’s a bingo!”

Tarantino mashes up a lot of things in his movies, and the music gets thrown into the mixing bowl too. Ennio Morricone is used liberally, to bring out the spirit of the spaghetti western. There are also some seventies blaxploitation riffs, David Bowie, and some orchestral music to round things out. Despite the differences, they all go together rather well.

The movie has its weaknesses, to be sure, but hell with it, they are far outnumbered and overpowered by the film’s strengths and cinematic fun. I will gladly watch it again. It doesn’t surpass Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction in my list of favorites. I don’t see myself buying a copy of it on DVD, but if given the chance to watch it again, I won’t pass it up.