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Last night, I watched Inglourious Basterds. It's been reviewed to death, so I don't have too much too add, but it's certainly vintage Tarantino, with gorgeously choreographed action scenes, sharp dialogue consistent with the different countries involved (this time in not one but four languages), brutal violence bordering on the comical, amoral, stylish men and beautiful women. And that, I realized this morning, is what makes this film. All this time, we've been laughing and cheering and wretching at Tarantino's presentation of gory violence as entertainment. We've been celebrating the glamorous murderers and lowlifes played by Uma Thurman, John Travolta, Harvey Keitel, Lucy Liu, comforting ourselves with the fact that it's okay to laugh because it's all fictitious anyway. What's key is to view this film within the context of the director's broader work, with that same hip presentation of violence and amorality we've grown to love. The laughter all of a sudden becomes uncomfortable. We start to wonder about the difference between Christoph Waltz's Jew hunter and Samuel Jackson's hitman, both smooth-talking, bad ass motherfuckers who kill for profit and power. And then to top it off, we witness a most meta of grand finales: Nazi brass view a film celebrating the impossible heroics of one sniper and the violent deaths of his enemies shortly before we, the film viewers, celebrate the impossible heroics of one Jewish girl and the violent deaths of her enemies. Godwin's Law was never clearer. 10:35 AM | Monday, January 25, 2010 | Links to this post | 0 Comments
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