Movie Review: Inglourious Basterds

Editors Note: This review was not initially meant to run on Two Thumbs Sideways. Or at the very least, not immediately. This review smacks of seriousness, which is mildly repugnant to Two Thumbs Sideways. Unfortunately, Left Thumb, in addition to being an Above Average Intellectual, is also an Above Average Lazy Bum, and wrote nothing for us to run tonight. On a more personal note, if you see Left Thumb anywhere around these days, tell him to get his act together. Ayn Rand probably didn’t even miss deadlines like this. Oh yeah, I went there. Anyway, without further ado, here is Right Thumb’s review of Inglourious Basterds.

I don’t know where to start, because like all Tarantino films, Inglourious Basterds has no true beginning, middle or end. It is all one tightly wound, postmodern circle set in a cinematic reality where nothing except the movies dare enter. This film certainly isn’t about World War II. It’s about films. Of course, that’s what one expects when walking into a theater showing a Tarantino film.

Basterds is also something I certainly didn’t expect. It’s boring. I don’t mean all of the time or even most of the time. But at numerous points in the 150-minute-long soliloquy that is a Quentin Tarantino script, I was staring at my watch. It seems that Tarantino is not only in love with movies. He is also deeply in love with Quentin Tarantino’s movies, and he proves it here with a level of self-indulgence you rarely see in films—which is saying something. This film isn’t even truly about films—a Dirty Dozen homage would have been more interesting. Inglourious Basterds is about Inglourious Basterds.

It starts off, however, with quite the effective scene. A Really Bad Nazi Guy (Christopher Waltz as Colonel Hans Landa) comes upon a Frenchmen hiding Jews under the floorboards. This is Tarantino at his best. Quiet and plodding, no music, delightfully tense dialogue as both men dance around the obvious issue. The Frenchmen knows how this is going to end, but he plays along with the charade as long as possible, hoping against hope he might be wrong. The German also knows how it is going to end, but he plays along because he is the sadistic, Really Bad Nazi Guy. Then, when the tension is about as taut as it is going to get, the scene erupts into quite the visceral display.

But the reasons for Tarantino at his best are the reasons for Tarantino at his worst, and sadly, that happens more often than one would like to see. We all know this film (along with nearly every Tarantino film, Pulp Fiction possibly excluded) has been pegged with the tired label that it talks more about doing things than actually doing them. Unfortunately, just because the label is tired does not mean it can’t be apt. Tarantino likes to hear himself speak, and most of the time we give him a pass because his dialogue is good enough to carry unreasonable weights. At many times in this film, this simply is not the case.

For one thing, he underplays his best character. Brad Pitt as Lieutenant Aldo Raine is phenomenal. “Bonjourno”. Those of you who have seen the film are probably laughing, remembering the ultra-American Al, pretending to be an Italian, speaking French. But where is he? He gets a great opening monologue as he explains to his crew of Nazi killers that their mission is to scalp a hundred Nazis. Each. He gets some funny lines here and there. But he isn’t around enough because this movie, of course, isn’t about Lieutenant Aldo Raine.

Most of the narrative—and I use that term loosely—revolves around a movie theater in France where the Nazi high command will be attending the premiere of a new propaganda film. The Basterds want to blow the theater up. The theater owner wants to burn it down. Nice synergy, and since it is Tarantino, you can imagine what happens. But before any of that comes to pass, we endure several scenes of not-so-brilliant dialogue, including a tortuously long sequence in a basement bar. There, a German officer attempts to determine whether or not the impostors pretending to be German officers are, in fact, imposters. A scene in a film is supposed to last as long as it has to last, and no longer. This scene lasts about three times as long as it needs to last.

But then, that is the ultimate problem with critiquing a Tarantino film. None of it has to happen. It is all there for its own sake. Think about how many times the name “Tarantino” has already appeared in this and every other Basterds review. His movies inevitably lead back to him, and he leads to his movies, and back again. Inglourious Basterds is so maddeningly self-aware that I was shocked when a young German soldier named Wilhelm did not utter a Wilhelm scream at some point. What was the plan to burn down the theater with all of the Germans in it? Ignite reels of celluloid film into a blazing fire. Covered in silver nitrate, the stuff “burns three times faster than paper”. The idea of killing Nazis in a Nazi movie with movies is almost irresistible. Tarantino doesn’t even try to resist. It makes no sense. But then, why should it?

My problem with this film isn’t that it lacks any sense. Go into a Tarantino film expecting that and you deserve what you get. The problem isn’t even with the somewhat frightening notion of Jews torturing and scalping Germans. You get the sense that the revenge going on here isn’t a real revenge. It is movie revenge. The violence isn’t for violence’s sake. It’s for movie violence’s sake. Tarantino doesn’t parody gunshots; he parodies other people parodying himself parodying other people parodying gunshots. And that is where the film lost me. To be that self-referential—to depend on one’s own legend, even—is to invite disaster. If the film is constantly hilarious, brilliant or exciting, you can get away with such shenanigans. But it isn’t, so it doesn’t. Great moments? Of course. Tarantino always has great moments. Great film? Tall task for a film about itself.

~Right Thumb~