Review: Inglourious Basterds
By Kirsty Leckie- Palmer
Modnay 2nd November 2009
Modnay 2nd November 2009
Clearly, Inglourious Basterds is an intended return to standard cinematic practice for Quentin Tarantino after his somewhat unapproachable elite-geek targeted Grindhouse flicks and succinct dalliances with TV direction. After a protracted indulgence of whims and dabblings, Inglorious emerges as a well-ruminated labour of love, having occurred to the offbeat-one long before the indelible signature film Pulp Fiction became our impression of Tarantino as auteur.
The premise of Inglourious is an alternate history, one in which a group of self-proclaimed ‘Basterds’ claim a victory for the free world in World War Two. Led by Lieutenant Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt), a Tennessee born and bred Jewish-American patriot, the Basterds are part of a plan to lead a group of Jewish men into Europe to defeat the Nazis, and each man is to retrieve one hundred Nazi scalps as proof of his efforts.
As is Tarantino’s wont, his tongue is firmly planted in his cheek for much of the film, but retains psychological depth, greatly thanks to key villain character Colonel Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz - a gem of a casting find plucked from the obscurity of German soap), a Nazi with a brutally intuitive intellect for his job. However, consistency is a persistent issue; Tarantino’s playfulness threatens the spectacular portrayal of some characters by such startlingly incongruous ends as a Mike Myers cameo, which by any standard does not work. Matters barely improve with the appointment of Brad Pitt as Raine, a grimacing clown of Americanism whose gratuitously arrogant enunciation of ‘Buaan Giaarno’ (in a careless attempt to pass as Italian to the Third Reich) is guaranteed to leave us cold to his under-nuanced portrayal. Christoph Waltz easily earned Cannes commendation for the smirking omniscience of his part, and, frankly, it’s a shame to see him killed off by the unappealing Pitt - who, even at such a small amount of screen time, makes his presence too much felt. In parts Tarantino doesn’t so much shoot himself in the foot with his casting as execute brazen and bloody Kill Bill style self-dismemberment. Far preferable is the parallel revenge dialogue playing out at the hands of Melanie Laurent (Shosanna Dreyfuss), who fronts as cinema owner who must continually exercise restraint in the face of poignant antagonism, to exact her retribution. The other female lead, played by an almost unrecognisably poised Diane Kruger, is Dietrich-styled German film darling Von Hammersmark, a minor cog in the revenge machine.
The film works best when it approaches psychological thriller, as in the opening interrogation scene between Hans Landa and a farmer sheltering Jews, which is perfectly poised in pace and subtlety, and the dialogue between Laurent and Landa as they order strudel is a tightly-wound exercise in restraint. Most of the brazen cinema-audience geared humour also has its place, reviving momentum for the more protracted sequences of tension which Tarantino so masterfully renders. Keen attention has been afforded to plot - and cause and effect are bound securely - though there are still blaring (but certainly fewer than we are accustomed from a Tarantino) moments of directorial self-gratification.
Some may find the conclusion disturbing, over the top, vulgar, or in poor taste. It’s not the most delicate handling of war crime retribution, but on the other hand its difficult to pinpoint exactly the answer to the question ‘why the hell not?’ when Tarantino is, after all, a promoter of extravagant vengeance. This particular scene would cause delight and delectation were it wielded against one luckless authority figure (think police officer in reservoir dogs). Something doesn’t quite sit right with Inglourious Basterds, a film, in Tarantino’s words, about “the power of cinema that’s going to bring down the Third Reich” can only really be credible in the heightened affectivity of the cinema environment. In the cold light of day as part a long-term film-fan diet it’s about as useful or healthy as lobby refreshments.
Rating: Three Stars
The premise of Inglourious is an alternate history, one in which a group of self-proclaimed ‘Basterds’ claim a victory for the free world in World War Two. Led by Lieutenant Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt), a Tennessee born and bred Jewish-American patriot, the Basterds are part of a plan to lead a group of Jewish men into Europe to defeat the Nazis, and each man is to retrieve one hundred Nazi scalps as proof of his efforts.
As is Tarantino’s wont, his tongue is firmly planted in his cheek for much of the film, but retains psychological depth, greatly thanks to key villain character Colonel Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz - a gem of a casting find plucked from the obscurity of German soap), a Nazi with a brutally intuitive intellect for his job. However, consistency is a persistent issue; Tarantino’s playfulness threatens the spectacular portrayal of some characters by such startlingly incongruous ends as a Mike Myers cameo, which by any standard does not work. Matters barely improve with the appointment of Brad Pitt as Raine, a grimacing clown of Americanism whose gratuitously arrogant enunciation of ‘Buaan Giaarno’ (in a careless attempt to pass as Italian to the Third Reich) is guaranteed to leave us cold to his under-nuanced portrayal. Christoph Waltz easily earned Cannes commendation for the smirking omniscience of his part, and, frankly, it’s a shame to see him killed off by the unappealing Pitt - who, even at such a small amount of screen time, makes his presence too much felt. In parts Tarantino doesn’t so much shoot himself in the foot with his casting as execute brazen and bloody Kill Bill style self-dismemberment. Far preferable is the parallel revenge dialogue playing out at the hands of Melanie Laurent (Shosanna Dreyfuss), who fronts as cinema owner who must continually exercise restraint in the face of poignant antagonism, to exact her retribution. The other female lead, played by an almost unrecognisably poised Diane Kruger, is Dietrich-styled German film darling Von Hammersmark, a minor cog in the revenge machine.
The film works best when it approaches psychological thriller, as in the opening interrogation scene between Hans Landa and a farmer sheltering Jews, which is perfectly poised in pace and subtlety, and the dialogue between Laurent and Landa as they order strudel is a tightly-wound exercise in restraint. Most of the brazen cinema-audience geared humour also has its place, reviving momentum for the more protracted sequences of tension which Tarantino so masterfully renders. Keen attention has been afforded to plot - and cause and effect are bound securely - though there are still blaring (but certainly fewer than we are accustomed from a Tarantino) moments of directorial self-gratification.
Some may find the conclusion disturbing, over the top, vulgar, or in poor taste. It’s not the most delicate handling of war crime retribution, but on the other hand its difficult to pinpoint exactly the answer to the question ‘why the hell not?’ when Tarantino is, after all, a promoter of extravagant vengeance. This particular scene would cause delight and delectation were it wielded against one luckless authority figure (think police officer in reservoir dogs). Something doesn’t quite sit right with Inglourious Basterds, a film, in Tarantino’s words, about “the power of cinema that’s going to bring down the Third Reich” can only really be credible in the heightened affectivity of the cinema environment. In the cold light of day as part a long-term film-fan diet it’s about as useful or healthy as lobby refreshments.
Rating: Three Stars