Inglorious Basterds

(*1 1/2 Stars*) After two-and-a-half constipatingly long hours of sitting through Quentin Tarantino’s newest World War II revenge “masterpiece,” Inglorious Basterds (starring Brad Pitt, Christoph Waltz, Melaine Laurent, and Eli Roth), I left the theater feeling as if someone farted in my mouth. Now although that might have something to do with the fact that I tried satiating my thirst caused my ingloriously buttery bag of popcorn with a bottle of Ensure (watch it! I was with my grandpa and doctors say it’s never too soon to start prepping for Osteoporosis), the sentiment I consequently felt after witnessing Tarantino’s production was one of depression and abhorrence for the senseless violence that incessantly splatters across the screen scene after scene. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good action flick (the day Bruce Willis talks down a terrorist into joining his Bikram yoga class instead of yippee-ki-yaying him to the grave is the day I yippee-ki-yay my own testicles), but Taratino’s World War II escapade misses the mark.

The movie begins in Nazi-occupied France in ____ year (your 6th grade history teacher would be ashamed of you), where German Colonel Hans Landa (portrayed fabulously by Christoph Waltz, who won best actor at the Cannes Film Festival for this role) interrogates and massacres a Jewish family being hidden underneath the floorboards of a French dairy farmers home. This heartless butchery sets the stage for 1st lieutenant Aldo Raine aka “Aldo the Apache” (Brad Pitt) and his band of ‘Basterds,’ a team of Jewish-American paratroopers whose mission and goal is to produce panic and havoc within the Third Reich by viciously killing as many German servicemen as possible.

While we monitor the ‘Basterds’ slayings and scalpings (who, realistically, strike as much fear into you as the 7 dwarfs or the pimple-faced, yamaka-wearing kid at my local Jewish Community Center who bicep curls 2 ½-pound weights with the same intensity as the Incredible Hulk giving birth to octuplets), we are introduced to another subplot involving Emmanuelle or Shosanna or, let’s just call her the Heidi Montag look-a-like, and her plot to seek retribution for the murdering of her family by setting ablaze a small cinema crammed with high-ranking German officials and officers at a film premiere. The movie is then concentrated solely on the events unraveling at this small cinema (which take you by surprise like a Janet Jackson nip-slip), while Tarantino takes the liberty of constructing his own devious version of how World War II concluded.

Although the film as a whole falls flat when it comes to entertainment value, there are bright spots that glisten in the movie. First—dialogue. Tarantino’s script boasts a confidence and witty swagger that is a staple to all his films. Characters elegantly ramble off on a tangent then strategically make their point with the seemingly-imprecise precision of a professional bowler’s hook ball.

Second—casting. Christoph Waltz’s depiction of Colonel Hans Landa (a character who radiates a unique blend of feminine masculinity, like a 300-pound Gold’s Gym bodybuilder asking you to spot him while he kegels) was superb. His despicably evil nature and masterful interrogation techniques where he seems to tango with his prey even though he already knows the answer (similar to when my girlfriend cross-examines me on whether or not I tooted in bed when it is just the two of us lying there). Certain scenes cause you to cringe and your stomach to do flips as you watch powerless victims get grilled by the charming and flamboyant Waltz. One also cannot overlook Brad Pitt’s performance as the pitiless and hard-nose ‘Apache,’ and Pitt’s ability to contort his face to resemble mine in the bathroom on Taco-night (tell me certain scenes he doesn’t look like he needs his diaper changed?).

One issue my mind has trouble wrapping itself around is why, with such wonderful character build-up, does Tarantino insist on killing off all of his troupe quicker than the Ebola virus? Is this some weird, tragic-Shakespearean initiation technique that all great directors must embark on to solidify themselves amongst the ranks of Scorsese and receive Oscar glory? I remember playing pretend when I was little in our neighborhood, and nobody ever wanted to be the “dead” person…”Bang, bang, I shot you…no you didn’t…yes I did…” (except for my chubby younger brother who relished make-believe death so he would not have to exert any more energy than required and go back to the house and open a bag of Cheetos…who would have thought he would be up for an Academy Award? ”That’s not cheese on my fingers, it’s blood!”). All in all, while Tarantino’s Basterds may render you at times to the brink of your seat, my final conclusion of this unusually distinctive take on World War II is that while most war epics leave you with simple morals like “War is bad” or cause us to reflect upon our own morals and values by depicting the enemies point of view, Basterds purely glorifies war and revenge--two things we could do more without in today’s day and age. In that sense, this film in comparison to previous WWII endeavors is much like a transvestite: because while you may initially be captivated by what you see, nothing beats the original.