I was lucky enough to get a ticket to a special screening of Quentin Tarantino’s new film “Inglorious Basterds”, where Quentin was to “introduce” the movie at 12:01 the day the movie opened. Needless to say the whole place was packed and the audience – mostly 20 and 30 somethings, were visibly salivating over the prospect of their heroes appearance. Was the movie very good? No. It wasn’t. But not for lack of trying: the entire cast was amazing and it’d be stupid to spend any length of time talking about their performances. Where the problem lies is in Quentin – a veritable auteur in the best sense of the world – is clearly in love with the sound of his own voice. This is a big hinderance in the film, as the middle third of the movie is almost exclusively one scene in a basement bar. It wouldn’t be a bad thing as much as he seems to use the entire middle third to do some sort of verbal stunt show, with dialogue going from german film directors of yore suddenly to an allegory about King Kong representing “the plight of the black man in America”. It’s well written, but it’s a lot like a Miles Davis solo in the middle of a Black Sabbath album – as good as it may be, it just doesn’t fit. Or maybe it does. See, some people just really seem to love Quentin. He is predominately in love with hearing his words spoken before – it seems – the plot, or advancement of such. 
Now – this isn’t to say that Inglorious Basterds isn’t well written. It does – however – mean that Quentin needs to be reigned in. There’s easily half an hour of this movie that could be cut. Mike Myers has a cameo for seemingly no other reason than to have a cameo. There’s a scene involving a woman’s shoe that takes almost fifteen minutes to explain itself when it could have been shortened down to two. I understand the benefit of a director that doesn’t have jump cuts all over the place every four seconds, but there were entire subplots that took too long and could easily have been shortened, not just so Quentin can have a backboard to bounce a couple one-liners off of. This is the first time I’ve noticed in his career that he may have written some of ‘Inglorious Basterds’ more esoteric monologues AROUND the plot – here, they carry with the them the air of being squeezed in, like he got the idea of something great to say in conversation and decided to throw it in there without much forethought as to the actual context of the film. This is how the movie doesn’t work: Whereas the first third of the movie promises “Killin’ Nazis” and explosions, the middle third coasts so hardcore on Quentin’s steam alone that by the time you get to the final third you’re already desensitized to the (admittedly) great action sequences. I’ve been rather cruel about the film. It really does have its merits: all the actors are brilliant, from Diane Kruger to Brad Pitt to the exceptional and undeniable film-carrying performance by Cristoph Waltz. The score (while stolen first hand from Quentin’s favorite films) is, as always, impeccable. The film has a lot of humor, and is amazingly well shot. However, it’s too long.
Comments
peter croizat
October 3rd, 2009 - 5:35:41 AM
No doubt Ned's review of a seven course french dinner would consist of a diatribe about how it would have been much improved if distilled down to a burger and fries. I assume Ned's best work is reviewing drive through movies while driving at 80 mph.
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Roberto Grassi
October 10th, 2009 - 5:10:01 AM
Honestly I found the entire plot to be lacking of consistency and Pitt's to be absolutely under the average. Sorry but there's nothing much in this movie to be happy of... probably I'd only save Cristoph Waltz. Cheers
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Will Carr
December 30th, 2009 - 4:40:27 PM
RENDING THE VECHY VEIL "They made their way up the coast of South America to the Galapagos Islands," I said to Ryndal sitting in the back seat. "You mean the Coast of Africa," he said. "What's that?" "You mean the Galapagos Islands off the coast of Africa!" I thought I was witnessing a segement from Jay Leno's Jay-Walking series....young people asked simple questions and Jay listening to the answers with amusment and disbelief. "Africa. The Galapagos Islands are off the coast of Africa," he continued as Bryan stepped into the car from the front passenger's side. "Tell him?" "Tell him what?" asked Bryan. "That the Galapagos Islands are off the African Coast." "Nope. South America," said Bryan matter-of-factly. "Darwin sailed south from England, rouded Tierra del Fuego and up the Chilean Coast, turned left and found Galapagos." A gloomy and dour pall fell over the passenger compartment. Six months later and it was Christmas. "Pretty Poinsettes," said Ryndal. "You know about the Poinsetta and how it got its name," I asked. "Nope, don't think I do." Bryan shut his eyes and shook his head as if he listened to the screaching brakes of train before it derails. "The American statesman, Poinsette, had traveled to Mexico to purchase territory only to return with the red plant that bears his name?" "So it had another name in Spanish before it was the Poinsette?" asked Ryndal's father sitting on the couch. "Guess it did," I said, "but I'm not sure I know what it was....maybe 'rosa flor'." Two days later and we're watching TV. "Let's do a movie. Inglorious Basterds", the young folks shouted. "You're favorite Christmas movie?" I asked. "No, It's a Wonderful Life," said someone. "Mine's Die Hard," I said in gest. "There's something wrong with Terrantino," I said. "Sure is," said Bryan. "Physiological, neurological, maybe hormonal. Look at the size of his forehead." "No," I mean he had no respect for history in that movie. Hitler killed in a movie theater in Paris and not in a bunker in Berlin? The kids are going to see that and believe that story and forget the truth." "Tarrantino's brilliant," said Ryndal. "And if you don't like it go to another room." A gloomy and dour pall fell over my own living room. I was being evicted by a young man who had just been given the nickname "orange peel". I stayed in the room and sat quietly hoping to give Tarrantino a closer more sensitive screening. "Orange peel was right for once," I thought when the movie was over. Tarrantino had correctly altered history via artistic expression and juxtaposed Hitler's propaganda machine of Joseph Goebels to a Jewish girl who survived the death of her parents and siblings to become a Parisian theater owner. Emblematic of the Jewish community's genius in using the Western media to counteract the German bias against the Jews, Hitler's fortress-Germania was effectively destroyed by the reels and reels of truth telling projected on the West's screens in countless theaters. Paris had been ground zero for the death of despots and the cradle of modern democracy bent on confronting tyranny. Tarrantino's message, though historically incorrect and filled with gratuitous violence that nowhere challenges the sadness of becoming what one opposes, was none-the-less true. The fictitious little girl who owned the theater where Tarrantion has Hitler and his henchmen die, was not a little Jewish girl in France, but a New York lawyer named Louis Nizer, whose efforts prior to the bombing of Pearl Harbor had brought the truth about Nazi atrocities to light in the West. Nizer would go on to become the leading lawyer for the Motion Picture Association of America....the same organization headed in the post war years by Jack J Valenti who like Tarrantino shared an Italian heritage with Ryndal....good old "Orange Peel". Of course by forgetting that Hitler had died in an underground bunker like Saddam Hussein in Iraq, like the rats they had claimed the Jew were all along, Tarrantino missed the irony of reality, but believe it or not, sometime reality mimicks art, too. Will Carr
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