#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.
No comments:
Post a Comment