Long, Gory, and Not Quite Glourious

Rating: 7/10 (23 August 2009)

Taking its basic inspiration from a subpar '70s actioner (same title, but spelled correctly) by Enzo Castellari, Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds" is the story of a group of Jewish-American soldiers scalping Nazis at the end of World War II...or maybe it's about the plot to kill the officers of the Nazi high command at the world premiere of a propaganda flick at a small French art theatre...or maybe it's about sitting around in a pub, trying to guess what cultural icon is written on that card pasted to your forehead.
To say "Basterds" takes the 'scenic route' to its inevitable conclusion would be a vast understatement. There is almost too much nuance, subtlety, and craftsmanship to absorb in one sitting, but in its own novel-like way (like the "Kill Bill" films, this is also divided into chapters), it all comes together, somehow.
An avid disciple of trash cinema with an undeniable knack for recycling said trash into creations of originality and cinematic slickness, Tarantino's love--first and foremost--is his characters...and their ability to jaw away on subjects ranging from crucial to superficial. Critics hailed this approach most notably in "Pulp Fiction," Tarantino's 1994 breakthrough. But by the time "Death Proof" rolled into theaters as part of the "Grindhouse" double bill in 2007, many seemed burned out by what had, at that point, become formulaic (scenes of winding conversation juxtaposed against moments of shocking violence). Those disappointed by "Death Proof" are not likely to be won over by the ambitious–yet garrulous–"Basterds."
Neither will those who have viewed the "Basterds" trailer (a shrewdly assembled string of highlights from the film's scattered--yet potent --action scenes) expecting a slam-bang fiesta of Nazi scalpings and bodies riddled with machine-gun fire. As exciting as it would be to see Tarantino truly cut loose with a scuzzy, exploitative homage to his forefathers, I think that duty will be forever be supplanted by frequent collaborator Robert Rodriguez ("Planet Terror"; "Sin City"). Still, Tarantino has pulled off quite a feat with "Basterds": he has made an art film that will play on nearly every screen in America, has the misspelled taboo of its title to draw in the curious, and makes sure most of the film's dialog is spoken in an array of languages (French, German, broken Italian)–that's right, this is a film that, for the most part, is READ. The opening-day crowd I saw this with expressed audible displeasure at the near-constant barrage of subtitled dialog. "C'mon, when do we get to see more scalpings?" it seemed to cantankerously demand.
As a period piece, "Basterds" is aesthetically interesting in that it straddles the line between the tropes associated with low-budget independent film-making and infuses them with a distinctly mainstream slickness (by comparison, this fictionalized take on the fall of the Third Reich and the end of WWII boasts a better plot and more excitement than last year's fact-based "Valkyrie"). The result is an oft-confounding collection of seemingly disparate events and characters (including frequent flashbacks that, puzzlingly, lack any sort of context), but I can't deny the sheer genius of certain passages, and the way the climax doesn't shy away from upending the proceedings in an unabashed orgy of blood and madness.
Above all else, the film is a showcase for Tarantino's distinctly well (some would say over)-drawn characters. Frequently, he will bring the story to an unexpected halt to give a newly-introduced face a monologue that shades in every nook and nuance, often before said character is unceremoniously blown away minutes later. While the result is an arrhythmic pace in a film that could have easily benefited from some dialog clipping, it also portends a depth that goes largely unseen in our attention-deficit era of film-making. And while Brad Pitt earns top billing as Lt. Aldo "The Apache" Raine (and is perfectly serviceable in the role), the film contains standout performances from Melanie Laurent (as the Jewish survivor of a Nazi raid, who runs the aforementioned French art theatre and conveys a detached, ice-cold beauty) and especially Christoph Waltz as Third Reich Colonel Hans Landa, whose ingratiating smile and laugh portends a darkness that's nothing short of horrifying (don't be surprised if he snags a Best Supporting Actor nod at next year's Oscars).