I can’t believe I stayed up most of the night just to watch Inglorious Basterds before tonight’s Oscars. Was it a complete waste of two and a half hours? No. But close enough to make me wish I’d gone to bed instead.
I should state up front that I’m not really a Quentin Tarantino fan. His blatant fondness for not only gratuitous violence but gratuitous gore as well, strikes me as childish and immature. Frankly it turns me off.
It reminds me of my own childhood at Saturday afternoon matinées when we’d delight in groaning “ewwww” at any incidental gore — the old arrow through the eye or a simulated scalping. (Yes, we watched a lot of westerns and Robin Hood-style adventures back then.)
But even as we looked to be grossed out in battle scenes and such, we knew we were being puerile, even if we didn’t know the meaning of the word at the time.
Wallowing in excesses
It seems Tarantino never got past that stage and now that he’s writing and directing his own films, he seems to revel in his own excesses. Unfortunately, according to box office receipts, there seem to be a lot of movie goers who think he’s some kind of genius. They must share his taste for the tasteless.
Quentin Tarantino, aka Mr. Gaga
Scalpings were never realistic on film back in my childhood days. Today, special effects departments have the ability to make them utterly realistic. I’m not sure I need to see such a graphic cutting and peeling back of the scalp to reveal the bloody top of the skull once, let alone the several times Tarantino indulges himself throughout this overblown movie.
As for carving swastika’s on the foreheads of Nazi villains, the scars on the forehead of the first victim shown made the point. Having to later witness a super realistic simulation of the act itself is a perfect example of Tarantino’s wallowing in gratuitous gore.
And he certainly does wallow. In the cuttings and carvings of human flesh there is no quick cutaway so the mind can fill in its own details. No, in Tarantino’s hands, the camera lingers, almost savours the grotesqueness.
As for the man beaten to death with a baseball bat, the lead up goes on far too long. And while the actual beating seems short by comparison, it too is far too vivid and graphic and realistic to be anything but Tarantino, as usual, rubbing our noses in the excessive violence and gore.
So why this concentration on Tarantino’s fascination with — addiction to? — blood and guts? Because they are the so-called highlights of the movie.
There is a story and in more mature hands — and with a much-shorter running time — there could have been a tense and compelling drama here.
But Tarantino lingers too much. One can almost feel him savouring his own cleverness, until his dawdling undermines said cleverness.
Crying over spilt milk
The opening cat and mouse game between an SS officer and a French dairy farmer is a great example. The performance by Christoph Waltz as the German officer is fascinating. And yet the whole scene tends to slowly seep across the screen like a pool of spilt milk. To the point one starts to wonder if it will ever get to its point. Will it ever end? Or will it take up the entire two and a half hours? If so, what about the infamous scalping scenes?
Waltz is up for an Oscar as Best Supporting Actor and his performance, though at time a bit over the top, is a tour de force. Too bad it’s wasted in this tour de farce.
On the other hand, so-called lead actor Brad Pitt seems to be there just to add a big name, a familiar name, to help sell the movie. His performance is an embarrassment. As the leader of a small group of assassins behind enemy lines during World War II, Pitt’s character is played as a buffoon. Whether this is done to underline the comic-book nature of the film, or merely a disguise for Pitt to hide behind, doesn’t really matter. I almost cringed every time he appeared on screen.
There are some fine scenes involving the mostly unheralded cast — like the confrontations in the basement bar — but again Tarantino’s worst fault is his inability to rein himself in. Again the looseness and lingering, languid pace undermines the energy and strong performances, as individuals and as an ensemble.
Suddenly I feel like I’m wasting time again just writing about this film. Devoting thought and energy to a movie that really doesn’t deserve it. Nor, in my mind, does it deserve its Oscar nominations for Best Picture and Best Director.
I’m somewhat insulted by Tarantino’s pandering to the puerile child that lurks within us. And I’m no prude or goody-goody. I’d actually be a bit ashamed of myself if I did enjoy — or at least be entertained by — this gratuitous drivel. It’s fine to say it’s just a cinematic comic book by an admitted show off but beyond the indulgence in the gross-out moments, there’s really little point to this film.
To me, it’s just a sad waste of talent, celluloid (so to speak) and my time.