Inglourious Basterds
The first thing that jumps to mind is that this film, even—nay, especially by the standards of Quentin Tarantino, is not a comedy. There are lighter moments, yes, but they are few and far between. The film (if I can borrow from it a bit) asks you to do one thing and one thing only.
Wait for some Nazis to die.
The Nazis in this film, especially Christoph Waltz’s hopefully iconic portrayal of the Gestapo’s Hannibal Lector, are not the average movie sort. Usually in Holocaust films, Nazis are either bland foot soldiers or quietly calculating psychopaths. Waltz, however, is just as much of a revelation as Anthony Hopkins’ cordial cannibal. He is, undoubtedly, the happiest man in the movie, yet each pause he takes is filled with so much danger the film nearly stops. The first scene alone, in which he and Dennis Menochet discuss seemingly banal metaphor until it’s not, takes around fifteen minutes.
This film takes its time. There are so many loaded pauses it could make one yearn for the rat-a-tat-tat pace of Jules and Vince in Pulp Fiction. That film only comes up in this one because Samuel L. Jackson makes a few random vocal cameos as narrator, for no reason other than to add a little of the blaxploitation narrative style of which the director is fond. Most of Tarantino’s little devices feel out of place here, such as chalky arrows pointing to various Nazis to indicate that they are very important assholes. However, there is ample time for introductions, or for the various plotters to go over their main targets.
The violence is to be expected in a Tarantino movie, but kudos to said director and writer for using conversation as well as he does a knife or bullet. In fact, the brutal violence is pretty much exclusively used against the Nazis, not by them. Brad Pitt and his fellow Basterds are cruel, cruel men. In fact, some of the German soldiers (including one drunk with joy over the birth of his baby son) seem more sympathetic than the nameless or faceless Americans. Is it intentionally ironic? It’s difficult to tell, but, then again, time makes things clearer. This may very well be Tarantino’s break into “serious” cinema, if he can manage to part with his more cartoony elements.
Ultimately, the Basterd subplot is just that. The story of a young Jewish woman, Shoshanna (Melanie Laurent), is not only more engaging than that of the American commandoes, it also has more dramatic heft. Here is a portrayal of a Jewish woman as a brave, daring, and heroic figure. Her war paint is lipstick, and her weapons are film stock and a smile. The film takes huge liberties with history, but the victory it celebrates is that of Laurent’s deeply affecting heroine. Critics have both lauded and trashed Tarantino’s representation of women (especially one Uma Thurman), but whether because of his writing, direction, or casting choices, Shoshanna comes across very, very positively.
