Cinema in Jest

Quentin Tarantino's six (or seventh- however you see the Kill Bill installment) film, Inglorious Basterds, seems to ultimately be a veritable homage to cinema itself. Film (specifically the film community), becomes our climactic end to all evil. Our complicated (and often slow-moving) mixture of filmmatic references, genres, narratives and characters converge in our common thread (and language): cinema. I do not doubt the infinite number of ways one can read this film- I myself am still struggling to fully contemplate my two and a half hour viewing experience. I can ultimately say little more than you need to see it for yourself. For this film, more than any other that I've seen recently, deserves personal viewership.

Layers and layers of cinematic history and reference build upon the film's five-part narrative. Grounded in our three rag-tag groups: the basterds (lead by charming and wonderfully cool Brad Pitt), our Jewish heroine in search of revenge (Melanie Laurent), and our Nazi "enemy" (celebrated Christoph Waltz). I leave "enemy" in quotations as I contemplate the talent of Mr. Waltz. His charm and gripping performance undoubtably leads the film, as he becomes our dangerously luring connecting character between the three groups. His expertise of Nazi charm becomes charismatic beyond all borders of preconceived Nazi-hate. (The same can be said for Bruhl's doe-eyed Zoller). Tarantino's Nazis become likable, enigmatic humans and cold-blooded killers (note: nearly every person we encounter could fall into similar categories). And though I do not view this with the distain of the New York Times, I think it's an important paradox to think about.

Though Inglorious Basterds let me have a pretty good time (Tarantino can always be counted on to make explicit violence a hell of a lot of fun), I think it needed some serious editing. And you're likely going to hear me say it time and time again: a brilliant writer/director does not exist. The ability for self editing seems to have diminished in one's own attempts to deliver a fully-controlled piece of work. Tarantino, like his other contemporary counterparts (i.e. Charlie Kaufman, Michel Gondry, M. Night Shyamalan) fail to see beyond their big vision. To put if frankly, Basterds was probably about 45 minutes too long. The film often got lost in Tarantino's homage to the western stand-off, bogging itself down in tension-filled extensive dialogue, with little cinematic form to match. Often with a bit of formal technical intervention, our verbal shpeal could have been cut in half. Yet I was interested, for nearly the entire time. Which is why I continue to circle around this film. As much as I continue to look into techniques, be it narrative, formal, referential, I cannot come to a concluding thought. I seem to have been handed a mess of contemplative fodder and am left to my own devices- which are currently failing me. There seems to no right nor wrong way of looking at it; only the inspiration of critical thought and an agonizing infinite road, splitting at every turn with no end. But maybe I'm analyzing a bit too much; is this really a complex compilation of cinematic reference, or is Tarantino simply fucking with me?