The important thing to understand about Quentin Tarantino is that, as an artist, he has no interest in real life. (Mr. Tarantino’s excellent Crate and Barrel adventure from 2004 does not help his cause, but perhaps there is a reasonable explanation.) Several dour and dense critics, most over the age of 50, cannot see this clear truth before them and have been spending the past few weeks willing their collective blood pressure to rise because they cannot pigeonhole Inglourious Basterds into that neat higher category they desire. (One wonders whether the late Don Edmonds, who gave us the first two Ilsa films, would have faced similar reception in the mid-seventies had he possessed Tarantino’s allure.)
I’ll get to these mostly humorless critics later. They include the normally astute Jonathan Rosenbaum (not this time), Daniel Mendelsohn (who is closer in his assessment, but, not nearly close enough), and the characteristically pompous Ed Gonzalez (who doesn’t seem to ken that Tarantino’s talkathons are part of the point).
The important thing to understand is that Tarantino has never been real. This is the man who didn’t see the humanity in Kirk Blatz’s Reservoir Dogs improvisation. (Blatz played a cop and blurted out the line, “Don’t burn me. I’ve got a kid.” Michael Madsen then told Tarantino, “Quentin, I cannot fucking touch him after he says that to me.” Tarantino’s response? “No, no, I think it’s great. I think it’s wonderful. It brings a whole new element to it.”) This is a man who introduces a kid into the Bride’s domestic brawl with Vernita in Kill Bill Vol. 1 for similar reasons. Character development? Oh, hell no. The kid brings a whole new element. And in Death Proof, when Stuntman Mike is asked why he spends so many hours drinking club soda and lime in a bar, Stuntman Mike says, “A bar offers all kind of things other than alcohol. Women. Nacho grande platters. The fellowships of fascinating individuals like Warren here.” Stuntman Mike turns out to be a psychotic. And it’s easy for any person with a remote understanding of life to see why, given this superficial explanation.
But one should not blame Tarantino for all this. He has, after all, been trying to tell us this for quite some time. Here’s Tarantino in an Entertainment Weekly interview for Kill Bill, Vol. 2:
But one thing that was semi-annoying to me in reading a couple of the reviews for ”Vol. 1” was, ”Oh, this is a very wild technique and style is cranked up and the technique has gone up, but it’s a clear retreat from ‘Jackie Brown,’ and the growing maturity was in there.” ”Clear retreat” says I’m running away from what I did in ”Jackie Brown.” I’ve done it. I don’t have to prove that I can do a [mature character study], all right? And after ”Vol. 1” I don’t have to prove that I can do a good action scene.
Maturity? Leave that for the elder statesmen. Tarantino has done it already. No need to repeat it. So what does Tarantino have to prove exactly? And why does filmmaking have to involve “proving” anything? We expect such claims from a high school jock, not a man in his forties. Maybe it’s because the critical and commercial audiences have expected Tarantino to be real, in the same way that they want Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and world peace to be real. Or perhaps Tarantino’s films prove so intoxicating that we really want them to be real. It’s a testament to Hollywood’s failings that Tarantino’s grab bag of cinematic references and outright theft (see Scorsese’s American Boy and Ringo Lam’s City on Fire just for starters) have managed to seem real, particularly for those who cannot see the real before them.
But if Inglourious Basterds were real, then why would we accept Adolf Hitler, Joseph Goebbels, Henrich Himmler, and Martin Bormann hanging around 1944 Paris for a film premiere? Innumerable history books refute this. Why would we accept Lt. Aldo’s Apachesque hunger for Nazi scalps? Or his ridiculously inept effort to impersonate an Italian late in the film? This is a movie that presents Goebbels, sitting with a woman who is not his usual French interpreter. The scene itself equires no additional explanation. It is abundantly clear to any thinking mind that this woman is his fuck buddy. And yet Tarantino feels compelled to insert a quick scene of Goebbels schtupping her. Why? Because this film, contrary to all the high-minded talk, isn’t really about the Holocaust. It is more about America’s cathartic response to violence. There’s no need for the Goebbels scene, but we wouldn’t mind seeing it. After all, when our bloodthirst rises, we won’t remember. And what does this say about us?
There’s no need for a long scene in which the thwacks of one vigilante’s baseball bat carry on at an absurd length — to the point where a histrionic Jeffrey Wells, who clearly has his cardiologist on speed dial, called it “one of the most disgusting violent scenes I’ve ever sat through in my entire life.” More disgusting than the Saw movies? We only hear the sounds. “Morally disgusting, I mean.” Oh. But how?
The vigilante in question, known as the “Bear Jew” by none other than Hitler himself, is played by Eli Roth, known predominantly for helming the Hostel movies, which some have described as “torture porn.” But I don’t think his casting is an accident. This is, after all, a movie in which one Frenchwoman says, a few years before the Cannes Film Festival and Cahiers du cinéma have been established, “I’m French. We respect directors in our country.”
But Tarantino can’t be respected in America. Jonathan Rosenbaum ridicules the film’s title, lambasting it with sics and many other charges, but doesn’t remember that Tarantino’s debut, Reservoir Dogs, bastardized the title of Au Revoir Les Enfants. Rosenbaum suggests that Tarantino’s film is “morally akin to Holocaust denial” and doesn’t understand why Jews are giving Tarantino a free ride for this apparent travesty. Maybe Rosenbaum hasn’t lived a second-generation life of nagging and incessant reminders about the Holocaust. (It’s worth noting Lawrence Bender’s reaction to the script. He called it “a fucking Jewish wet dream.”)
Door #2 reveals Daniel Mendelsohn, a critic so lost in the classics that he can’t familiarize himself with the rampant exploitation film violence of the past four decades. Mendelsohn fixates on the scalping as “post-modern fun,” and reveals his true cathartic cards. Mendelsohn just loves seeing the scalped Nazis, thus proving Tarantino’s point — that we are all equal at the cinema. Mendelsohn is smart enough to determine that Basterds is not real life, but he sees this more as a problem than a possibility. Mendelsohn is also wise enough to pinpoint “the visceral pleasure of revenge,” but isn’t willing to come to terms with his own clear pleasure in seeing the Nazis tortured. Here is a high mind who has fallen into Tarantino’s trap, clearly reveling in the violence. One can see Lt. Aldo recruiting Mendelsohn, had he been born only a few decades earlier, and Mendelsohn capitulating his civilized and critical perch for the “fun” of revenge.
This is not, as Mendelsohn suggests, Tarantino’s “taste for vengeful violence,” but the audience’s. If you find the film’s violence fun or cathartic, you will likely wilt into Tarantino’s snare. But is this really so bad as pretending that you don’t have it in for somebody? Perhaps this is where the virtues of catharsis might be found.
Various film people have been raving about Christoph Waltz as Col. Hans Landa, and with good reason. He offers the most compelling performance in this film, and Tarantino has made him the focus of our rage. Here is a man who asks permission to enter a home but who, like Stuntman Mike’s eating habits, will wolf down a strudel without pausing to taste the meal. (When this occurs, and a Jewish woman disguised as French is forced to eat the strudel, Tarantino lingers through closeups on the cream being served atop the strudel, insinuating a kashrut violation.) Is it so wrong to cheer on the despicable Landa’s inevitable fate (comparable as it is to our blind acceptance of waterboarding)? Or are we complicit, as the film suggests later, in approving of the inevitably real results of our cinematic catharsis?
When the four major Nazis attending the cinematic premiere arrive, Tarantino is quick to highlight their names with optical arrows pointing to their location. Here they are! suggests the underlying semiotics. Do you want me to kill them for you later on in the film? If you have a problem with such underlying autocratic flourishes, this film is probably not for you. But if you are a regular filmgoer, then you might wish to consider these questions anyway.
Since Tarantino has spent a lifetime insisting that cinema may very well be the only focal point that he can start from, I found Basterds‘s candor refreshing and I was able, at long last, to accept a Quentin Tarantino film for what it was. Ed Gonzalez, whose review lede reads like a Philip K. Dick protagonist contemplating the paranoia around him, sadly could not, despite his four star rating (which I suspect I agree with). If you’re determined to see everything as “an allusion” or “a pose,” rather than accepting the visceral discomfort before you, then this film is not for you. Which is not to discount Tarantino’s hubris. A film that dares to call into question our cathartic response is arrogant by its very nature. But if we’re so content to feel outrage about whether a film may or may not be exploiting us, one wonders why we’re so determined to put such energies into the duplicities of narrative rather than the more salient (and fixable) cons before us in the real world. If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people may eventually come around to believing it. Especially in cinema. Tarantino has told a big lie. And if the town hall lunatics believe that Obama is Hitler, then I suspect that even our most nimble critical minds will have similar thoughts about Tarantino’s vision. For those of us who have accepted (and enjoyed) exploitation films all along, revisiting this source may prove a strange panacea. And if this anodyne lasts beyond our immediate epoch, then it will be Tarantino who has the last laugh. And for this grand illusion, he may rightly deserve the spoils.
I think it is tough to understand Tarantino without going down to Austin and spending some quality time at the Alamo Drafthouse and taking in the free midnight shows, where everybody is drunk or tripping or coked up, and yet nobody is talking or making ironic fun of the amped-up seventies trash. No one is above it. They audience is studying for clues. They are looking for the point in films called “The Black Six” and “The Sinful Dwarf” and “Gator Bait.” The goal is to find a movie that is so fucked up to watch that it breaks your heart; that it makes you ache for the sincere moral clarity that Tarantino provides in his blunt Punch and Judy pastiche. There are no critics at the Drafthouse. The search is not for “art” or for “good cinema.” You go there to test yourself. To find out what the fuck is wrong with you. To discover that you are not alone. To discover that you may never get better and to learn to cope with that.
There are probably places like this in NYC, but I’m sure they cost twenty bucks and card at the door. This ruins everything; everything.
[…] Ed Champion reviews: Inglourious Basterds […]
Terrific review, Ed, though I do disagree with one statement: “But Tarantino can’t be respected in America.”
I think anybody would agree that Tarantino is among a very, very rare group of directors who make any given movie they helm an ‘event’ (Spielberg, Scorsese, Peter Jackson, Sam Raimi–for me at least–are the only others I can think of off the top of my head. I’m sure given time I could think of a few more). When Tarantino makes a movie, he, not the stars–not Brad Pitt or Uma Thurman or Robert DeNiro–is the selling point. All the advertisements for “Inglorious Basterds” focus more on Tarantino than Brad Pitt, because they know his name will make people take notice. And without a doubt, he’s one of the most influential filmmakers of his generation (case in point, the innumerable “Pulp Fiction” knockoffs we saw in the mid-late 90’s).
Whereas the critics you take to task do have a voice, I think they speak for a VERY small audience. The actual film public, and the vast majority of reviewers, recognize Tarantino for his contributions, his style, that he’s one of the few filmmakers who is both original, visionary, and frequently commercially successful (i.e. appeals to the general public).
So you may be right in that ‘these’ American critics don’t respect Tarantino, I do believe that the overwhelming majority of critics–and perhaps more importantly the public–do respect him.
Couldn’t agree more about your basic premise. It’s always been my argument that Tarantino’s movies are a video-store clerk’s wet dream and thus can never go past a certain depth. That level being the one where the filmmaker attempts to communicate about their first hand experience. This doesn’t mean there aren’t pleasures to be had here, only that there will always be a further remove for the viewer; no true way to immerse oneself in a third or fourth hand experience…
I think it’s time that critics just accept Tarantino for who he is,not who they want him to be. Maybe this song could help them get to that happy land of acceptance:
You are an excellent film critic, Ed. I too don’t understand why Tarantino does not get credit for being the pop artist that he is, the collagist that he is, the remixer that he is. That these forms are not excepted by the majority of elder film critics is what mystifies me the most, as if Warhol and Ruscha and Rosenquist and Lichtenstein never happened. Strange.
All that said, Tarantino is beginning to disappear up his own ass simply because he cannot pace a scene any more to save his life. That’s where I disagree re the talking–when it extends scenes that become flatter than a pancake and just as boring to watch.
Hmmm. YMMV, Jeff. I thought the 20-minute opening scene was only exceeded by the 30-minute bar scene for suspense. Were Hitchcock still alive, I believe he would stand up and cheer (well, not literally, Hitch being an extremely reserved chap).
I agree Ed writes good movie reviews — I can count on him for a different, intriguing take on things. So many reviewers are predictable, and many of them say the same things about a movie. Ed doesn’t fall into that trap.
1. If Tarantino had been Jewish (he isn’t– I think?), would the film have been interpreted differently by critics? If so, how?
2. How is the film being received in Germany? Do the Germans “get” Tarantino?
I read an interview with Tarantino in the Village Voice — in passing, he says he isn’t Jewish. Elsewhere, I’ve read he’s one-quarter American Indian.
I haven’t seen Basterds, don’t intend to. Your review, however, is among the worst I have ever read. Your writing is deplorable. There must be a high school English teacher to blame. How you have managed to convince yourself that you possess any skill as a critic or writer is beyond me. Don’t quit your dayjob, Biff.
Shoshanna is “…a Jewish woman disguised as French…”?? Hey she is French. Judaism isn’t a nationality you know, it’s a religion. You can be Jewish and French at the same time.
I had the PRIVILEGE of attending the UK premier of Inglorious Basterds! Having seen the trailers i had high hopes but had doubts due to a string of self indulgent films (c’mon lets be honest, self indulgence is his tarantinos middle name)
I was surprised to find though that he had pulled the cat out of the bag with this one. The film is rich with interesting dialogue, Perfect timed comedy with a dash of brutal assassination.
The crowning glory of this film though lies with Christoph Waltz whom no fault or error can be found. He manages to create a real tension in the audience whilst remaining quite “theatrical” (couldn’t think of a better word). He definitely deserved his prize at Cannes