Movie review part zwei: Inglourious Basterds

Paris when it sizzles.

by John P. Meyer

Throw your John Toland out the window, because I'm pretty sure some of the events portrayed in Inglourious Basterds never actually took place. But this should come as no surprise, because those with a facility for spelling will already be aware that Tarantino's new action thriller grabs poetic license by the throat with both hands -- you can tell this just from its title.

The film is basically a blend of revisionist WWII history and wish fulfillment, involving actual Nazis instead of the kinds of people currently being labeled as such in the polarizing health care reform debate. In the case of these actual Nazis, Tarantino wants to be clear on the subject: it's O.K. to kill them. With extreme prejudice. Using submachine guns, sharp implements and baseball bats. (Or firebombs ...)

Stylistically, what we have here is a Spaghetti Western (big nods to Sergio Leone) with Schmeissers standing in for Colt revolvers and jack-booted Nazis filling the Italian leather shoes of avaricious, land-grabbing railroad magnates.

The first scene finds "Jew hunter" Colonel Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz, sipping milk while stealing the show) sitting down for a seemingly courteous visit at the home of a French farmer named LaPadite (Denis Menochet). While his gun-toting soldiers wait outside, Landa engages LaPadite in an extended, tension-filled conversation involving Col. Landa's reputation for thoroughness and M. LaPadite's renown as the progenitor of prodigiously lovely daughters. One of these mademoiselles -- the resourceful Shosanna (Mélanie Laurent) -- will play a major part in apocalyptic events to come.

Having established the occupied France backstory, Tarantino opens the next chapter of his narrative, centered on a special force of Allied soldiers operating behind German lines. These army irregulars (a veritable Dirty Dozen, though short by a few members numerically) wreak all kinds of bloody havoc amongst the occupying soldiery, and -- of course -- take no prisoners. Because we're talking about NAZIS here, folks. Add in the factor that this elite guerrilla squad is composed primarily of Jewish-American combatants, and you might begin to understand the level of ferocity they're comfortable with dishing out. Which is high. (Pass the scalping knife.)

The leader of these "Basterds" (don't bother asking Tarantino why he messed with the spelling, 'cause he ain't talkin' -- other than to say that if you have to ask, you simply don't get it) is Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt). Raine's a wise-cracking, cracker-talking bad ol' boy who claims to be a descendant of mountain man Jim Bridger; he sports some post-lynching neck scars to back up his wild-ass reputation. Before long, Raine and his homicidal crew have the Nazis leadership talking (in hushed, behind-closed-doors expletives) about their bloodthirsty exploits. The select German survivors of their raids provide particularly compelling eyewitness testimony.

Notable among the Basterds are Sgt. Donny Donowitz (Eli Roth), notorious in enemy ranks as Der Juden Bär ("the bear Jew"); and Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz (Til Schweiger), formerly a German soldier himself -- though a particularly ill-mannered one (treating mass murder as behavior of the ill-mannered variety).

Meanwhile, the Shosanna branch of the story rolls along on a parallel track, with she having set herself up in the movie theater business in Paris. Shosanna succeeds in keeping a low profile until a bright eyed young German officer (Daniel Brühl, as hero of the Reich Fredrick Zoller) notices the shapely turn of an ankle as she's changing the letters on the marquis out front. Zoller becomes enthralled and single-minded in his pursuit of this comely French lass who seems to bear him nothing but disdain, while others swoon at his feet. (And his feats.)

Waiting in the wings -- and then taking center stage in a series of drawing room interludes -- are historical figures Adolf Hitler (Martin Wuttke), Winston Churchill (Rod Taylor), and Joseph Goebbels (Sylvester Groth), along with a host of additional uncredited Nazi leaders. In an offbeat and -- as it turns out -- off-key casting choice, Mike Myers rears his head as one of Churchill's commanding generals (Ed Fenech). No, baby, no!

When the two story lines begin to intersect -- with the basterds assisting British army infiltrators on an undercover mission to Paris, and Shosanna's movie house shaping up to be the their theater of operations -- events build to a dramatic (and impressively historically-inaccurate) conclusion.

Fueling the drama as we roll along on this riptide of violent retribution is some impressive musical accompaniment. From classic Ennio Morricone film scores to a particularly apt placement of David Bowie's Cat People (Putting Out Fire), the musical selections succeed in adding resonance to otherwise one-dimensional events. Here's a poser: was Tarantino's decision to use Green Leaves of Summer as the intro song a sly bit of foreshadowing? (HINT: the Dimitri Tiomkin ballad was originally composed for John Wayne's The Alamo.)

The film, at 153 minutes, never fails to entertain, though three gripping sequences stand out:

1) Waltz's initial appearance as the deceptively reasonable and remarkably cultured Col. Landa, whose extended visit with poor LaPadite grows ever more tense in almost subliminal ways.

2) The confrontation in the basement cafe between undercover Allied (and Allied-sympathizing) operatives and a group of (mostly) unsuspecting German celebrants. Lurking in the shadows is a suspicious German SS officer who's aching to play a spirited round of Indian -- high stakes variety.

3) The beginning of the end (as opposed to the end of the beginning), as Shosanna daubs rouge on her cheeks in lieu of warpaint, while the aforementioned Bowie ballad hammers home the inevitability of forthcoming events.

Spell it however you choose, Inglourious Basterds translates to top drawer cinematic entertainment.