A group of kids, fourteen years old or something, a group of kids stroll in from the root beer stained corridor, bouncing around at the bottom of the screen finding a clear row of eight seats. Strolling and bouncing around as if they going to a Brad Pitt movie. Or something. From this eagle’s nest, dead center, on padded seats to scrutinize, one can only notice the latecomers distracting from the opening previews. In this theatre, a group of kids, fourteen years old or something, walk in a few more circles and exit the space.

‘Not their movie, I guess’

This is a film that was a hair’s breadth from stealing the Palme D’or at Cannes. Not their movie. And yet, this is a film starring Brad Pitt, and yes, a film written and directed by Quentin Tarantino. And if there is an achievement that both entertainers can consistently call their own, it is throwing that sentiment away like lint in their pockets. These people make their work everyone’s movie. That is what they do. And while the ‘high brow’ (pre Kill Bill) designation that would follow Tarantino’s glorified pop trash did seem to permeate the hype for this project, Inglourious Basterds’ marketing would also paint an eccentric war comedy starring, well, Brad Pitt. Isn’t the sixth film from Quentin Tarantino glorified pop trash after all? It certainly would like to be at various points, but this filmmaker’s inevitable maturation cuts through. Tarantino cannot escape his previous experience, his unique and defining resume, and ultimately succumbs to writing a surprising, persuasive, and challenging film. From this slowly descending theatre seat, I must say ‘succumbs’; there are many eager viewers who will be keeping their fingers crossed for demented kitsch, grindhouse attitude, and for lack of better words, digestible… coolness; yes,  the kind of coolness that is easy to consume, process, and regurgitate as pop culture staples for years to come. And for those hopefuls, there are seventies funk captions, Samuel L. Jackson narrated cutaways, and building conversations with Quentin’s best punch lines. It’s there, it’s there, it’s there.

For all the quote-ability and manufactured cool, Tarantino has also stunningly created the smartest film of his career. In a plot that creates clear objectives for its characters, there is always the pervading theme of disguises. Each player steps into different identities, tries on different lives like jackets, and even some who seem to have no qualms with instantly disregarding years of hardline values. The world that holds them all is pre-war occupied France, setting the stage for Jewish American soldiers who are the titular Basterds. The goal the script gives to them is simple; each must collect 100 Nazi scalps. And there are Nazis. Hundreds of them.  This film approaches the Nazi like any other character; a disguise. They are uniforms, anonymous bloody skulls with hair around the edges, and it is only when they take their uniforms off and hang their helmets up for the day that this film displays its genius. Brad Pitt plays Aldo Raine, who is only a hero because of his sheer inability to change.  Even in a riotous scene where this Tennessee vagrant must portray an Italian stuntman, he is inescapably himself. He even seems disinterested with the nickname “Aldo The Apache” merely accepting it because it happens to be true. Aldo cannot transform, or simply will not transform, and demands that his enemies remain their enigmatic selves… By any means possible (I will dare not spoil this, as it is film’s most striking moment). Why does Raine, a non–Jew, remain so steadfastly adverse to the Nazis other than his common decency and patriotism? I would guess that he respects the Jews’ identity, their status as Americans, and finds a group who wishes to destroy an identity of all things, abhorrent. Raine is the hero who defends and challenges the film’s terrified naked characters who run for shade when the light exposes them.

Pitt delivers with expert timing and diction, a superior trait that he wisely favours here rather than being memorable. His work as an actor has integrity in this film, and it is his cautious and disciplined approach that builds a credible character rather than an animated one. Regardless of this, the leading role is surprisingly absent from 60% of the film, where other perpendicular plot threads grow ever tighter. Of course, the other notable presence in this film is the work of Christoph Waltz, an actor who has seemingly been removed from the limelight for nearly a decade. His character, Hans Landa, is a gripping villain, one who relishes their own gossip like it is gasoline. The morality of his actions is in an engine powered by notoriety and reputation. He is unfortunately prodigious at “hunting Jews” and relentlessly pursues his talent solely for fame and glory. He is sickening, yet captivating under the film’s microscope. This actor jumps into a strange knot of the roots that exist somewhere between eerie and humorous. His bout of laughter in the film’s closing chapter is the perfect example of a candid performance that remains scarily close to the character’s psyche.

This spider-web of themes and surgically reliable ideas is given credence by the director’s growing talent with talking heads. The camera lens and cutting room hours are used incredibly well, using a master’s ability to give momentum and dependable geography to extended dialogue scenes. Tarantino takes a page out of his beloved Japanese cinema by introducing abrasive, punctuated, and rapid moments of violence. The brutality does not shock, but achieves the visceral punch that the “3-D Revolution” could only hope to match. The quietness and all too brief barrages or Technicolor aggression are a welcomed surprise for such an off beat concept. The minor problems with this film are most glaring with Tarantino’s slavishness towards his own hallmark. The quirky captions feel like too much at times, and tragically disintegrate his most vividly realized world yet. All that tacky homage had a home in Kill Bill, and it is there they should stay; even his previous work Death Proof maintained a sensibility that was not interrupted by fanboy pandering. These occurrences do not hurt the film as a whole, but are infuriatingly obvious.

This is a film that would appear so concise and straightforward but discombobulates into fascinating concepts as it all untangles in the mind. For many, this will be a blockbuster for the intellectual, and for lovers of film, ecstasy wrapped in conversation. The scope of this project goes so far beyond it’s premise and marketing hype that by the credits, all demographics of the audience left the theater with stupid grins on their face. It was their movie, and they loved it.

(8.4/10)