Hollywood will probably never get World War II completely out of its system. Fifty years from now, we’ll be watching the hologram remake of Saving Private Ryan and raving about the unflinching realism of the D-Day scene. WWII as a historical period lends itself particularly well to the devices of cinematic storytelling. The bad guys are clearly defined, the locales are distinctive, the props are iconic, and the ending is never in doubt. In Inglourious Basterds, director Quentin Tarantino demonstrates a solid understanding of the conventions of the WWII movie. He also introduces a dense verbosity and a visceral brutality that isn’t found in most war movies.
Basterds is ostensibly about a group of American Jewish soldiers who are sent into Nazi-occupied France to terrorize the Germans with acts of unspeakable violence, but the Basterds’ screen time is surprisingly limited. Much of the film centers on a French Jewish woman who, years earlier, escapes a Nazi massacre and manages to blend into Parisian life. Her fate and the fates of the Basterds intertwine as a result of a series of outlandish plot twists typical of a Tarantino movie. It’s important to remember that Tarantino is using WWII as a springboard for a more fantastical story that is not rooted in historical fact. But the liberties he takes with the facts are easily forgiven in light of some truly enthralling filmmaking. There’s a remarkable scene set in a divey French bar that is a textbook example of building and sustaining tension until the orgiastic violence of the climax. It’s funny and bloody and filled with sharply written dialogue, the hallmarks of a Tarantino movie.
You either like this kind of thing or you don’t. I left the theater smiling.
