Film Review: Inglourious Basterds (2009)

Sgt. Donny Donowitz (Eli Roth) and Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) in Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds"

When Death Proof said farewell to its Grindhouse packaging and hit UK screens solo, a whole bunch of QT fans left the cinema feeling disappointed. The census: the world’s coolest director had lost it. He’d overindulged. Taken it too far this time. Nobody got what the heck he was talking about. But it might’ve been unfair that his car crash slasher was forcibly screened out of context – it had been created as one half of Grindhouse, a homage to those poorly-made, exploitation double-features that littered American screens throughout the 70s and 80s. Due to the box office failure of this project in the States (of which Sin City’s Robert Rodriguez directed one half), the UK received only Death Proof as a sort of punishment.

That it is his worst film is clear, but it’s definitely not a bad one. Misjudged, misguided and misunderstood are words that all spring to mind. That, and it was easy for a lot of people to miss the point. A handful of the dodgy exploitation touches were taken out, and it was presented in a way that avoided the marketing and presentation that it required. Tarantino’s next project, then, had to bring him back on form. It’s (misspelled) title? Inglourious Basterds.

A self-described western disguised as a war film, Inglourious Basterds takes setting in 1941 during a very Nazi-Occupied France. Brad Pitt is Lt. Aldo Raine, a hillbilly roughneck who enlists a group of Jewish-American soldiers with the intention of getting medieval on the Nazis. And they’re no ordinary unit: they hunt with Apache forcibility, scalping the heads of their enemies, leaving blood and destruction wherever they tred. And they’re soon to become something of legend amongst their enemies. One particular member, Sgt. Donowitz (Eli Roth), has been nicknamed “The Bear Jew” – he’s particularly renound for his trademark weapon, a baseball bat, which he brutally batters uncompromising Nazis to death with. All of this is done with no regard in hiding the violence.

Meanwhile, our parallel storyline – yes, you guessed it - sees Shosanna Dreyfuss (Mélanie Laurent), a young Jewish girl, escaping the clutches of sardonic Nazi Colonel Hans Landa (the exceptional Christopher Waltz), who has earned his own nickname – “The Jew Hunter” – from his remarkably honed skills in finding those who have gone into hiding. He orders the massacre of her family, but she escapes, and takes refuge in France as the proprietor of a movie house. That these stories will come together we are sure, but just how exactly is left until over halfway through.

But, actually, the storyline isn’t very complex: it’s all about the style, the dialogue and the characters (and of course, how many obscure movie references Tarantino can get in amongst the two and a half hour running time). The performances are knockout. The whole thing looks fantastic. The attention to detail is that of a seasoned professional. And to compare it to any of his other works, it’s most like Kill Bill (Tarantino himself says Pulp Fiction, but I can’t agree). Go in expecting that kind of film, and you’re going to have a blast.

We already know of Tarantino’s love affair with moving pictures. His passion for the cinema reaches so far that he pays respect to it at practically every moment. And it is respect. Here’s a man who is so immersed in movies that he cannot help but project his loves for everyone to see. We open with music from The Alamo over the credits (the beautiful “The Green Leaves of Summer”), hear snippets from a whole bunch of Ennio Morricone-scored films throughout, are treated with Samuel L. Jackson as our narrator, and a whole host of Kill Bill-esque flashbacks to give us lively explanations to his distinctive characters. Tarantino is right: It’s a western disguised as a WW2 flick. Take a look at the name of the first chapter for the proof: “Once Upon A Time… In Nazi-Occupied France.” A sure-fire nod to Tarantino’s man Sergio Leone.

What else? It’s funny. Tarantino’s sense of humour has always shined through, but here, given the context, it seems to work best. The violence, like always, is played for laughs, but the whole film rests on a tone that somehow transcends what it ought to be: you feel sad when you should feel sad, you laugh when you should laugh, you’re shocked when you should be shocked. Considering that it sounds so unbelievably haphazard, it’s surprising just how well it all comes together.

What we get a result of all this is a hugely imaginative affair, an ode to popular culture, to the cinema, and to Tarantino himself. Some moments are bordering the self-indulgent, but it’s always in the name of fun. If the dictionary were looking to replace their definition of “entertaining”, then I would happily suggest two words for the new explanation: “Inglourious Basterds.”

Then again, this might not work for some people at all. I understand. War? Nazis? Some people can barely take Tarantino as it is. All those lengthy speeches, the references to movies nobody has ever heard of, the no-holds take on violence, the treatment of an era that in many people’s opinion demands only respect. 

But there’s no message here. There’s no side taking. It’s just a playground for Tarantino to do with what he likes. It didn’t have to be Nazis, it just happens that it is. It gives him even more to play with. You can just see Tarantino in his glory writing this thing, making up the nicknames (“Aldo the Apache”), the backstories (one of the Basterds is a ex-Gestapo agent who murdered 13 fellow officers), and imaging the musical cues, reminiscent of moments from his favourite films. Really, like Kill Bill, it’s a movie geek’s wet dream.

What Tarantino has done here is completely typical of his style, yet it reeks of something else, something, dare I say, more adult. Of course, that comment may be ill judged, and I might have found myself tricked by the context and the abundance of historical iconography. That Pulp Fiction will probably remain his best-loved film for a long time is true. Still, something inside tells me that in thirty years, it’ll be Inglourious Basterds that film scholars look back on to see what was going on inside Tarantino’s head. “This might just be my masterpiece,” stands as the final line in the film. That this is the director addressing whoever wants to listen, I’m sure of. That he might be right? Hm. Ask me in thirty years. (*****)