Through his almost
invincible and unapologetic leading ladies,
and a delectable deliberate whimsy, he has a mighty power to observe and contemplate, almost any
unimaginable scenario and theres a resulting honesty, as raw as it is polished,
With this film his voice has come alive in the image of cinema. And there are no remaining diamonds
left in the rough. Slick, empathic, unstoppable and posing a hundred uncomfortable questions
with the flair of the most sympathetically subtle propaganda films, the audience is graced with the films remarkably evolved
restraint and the legacy of the filmmakers undying faith in his own unique vision, withholding absolutely nothing that
belongs up on the screen. A dream come true for the dreamers who don’t remember their dreams.
If I did not know anything at all about Tarantino’s film’s or was coming from a place of apathy, I would still
be completely and utterly unable to resist the inevitable reality of this becoming my new favorite film of all
I pointlessly crave and grasp in the hours after having seen it, to be afforded even the choice to consider
another of the many, many films I have loved most in my life to compete for the honor of “favorite”.
It’s a fool’s errand. Futile to resist. I have no say in the matter. If theres a sly trace of propaganda in a film that contemplates
propaganda, then I have bitten the bait, and I am converted. But from what to what? Is there art that is so good that
it can’t help but innocently and passionately persuade the audience to it’s ’side’ – as much as certain pieces of propaganda
inadvertently evolve into the depths of real art? If that side isn’t delineated -
well, what unconscious assumptions do the movie going public become more fully immersed in?
I didn’t go into that single movie theatre with really any clue ‘Inglourious Basterds’
could be that good. No fervent anticipation on my part, or critically artful praise I’d read or heard,
could prepare a person for the masterpiece that awaits someone attending a showing
of this film. Theres nothing outside of seeing the film that could even remotely do it justice.
It’s like nothing else.
I had already assumed my expectations were probably unrealistically high. The type of
expectations that by their very nature seem to deserve to be dashed. The type of expectations that
in fear of Murphy’s law naturally self edit within the psyche, to reduce the bulk and magnitude
of let down later, trimming the fat off the mind’s eye, in the ‘realistic’ and pragmatic hope of enjoying
a great film and not being too terribly let down, by mere greatness.
Those exceedingly high expectations were a few M-I-L-E-S
BENEATH THE REALITY OF IT’S ACTUAL GREATNESS.
I’m utterly stunned.
Every bar I have set for myself as an artist, and human being has to, as a result,
be raised infinitely, INFINITELY.
There’s no excuse or plausibility for any artist or person to not ascend
leagues above their highest hopes of manifestation,
Tarantino has singlehandedly
rewritten the rules of what’s possible to imagine,
hope for,and create.
For anyone who still thinks theres some slow incremental changes afoot, newsflash : that game is over.
Quentin won, and hence we all have really.
There’s a distinct sound echoing through the hours after having seen
“Inglourious Basterds” of :
glass ceilings shattering
in the cathedral of heart’s and soul’s
and mind’s around the world.
With every new showing of this film.
Self imposed limits and imaginary expiration dates are dying before exceeded,
under the chorus of a visual song pounding with the insistence and certainty of a drum,
pouring out his actor’s mouths as a wreath of
rapid fire blooming wildflower words,
sounding out the dialogue that is the fruit of
Quentin Tarantino’s verdant violent enlightenment.
Unhindered and unhesitating,
in plain view, in not just a theatre near you,
this film does not end when the lights come up,
it lives on within. The fires keep burning.
Mr. Tarantino has his camera on the hidden pulse of the people, spotlighting the revelations
more or less inhibited without his visionary precision, and his touch on an exit strategy out of whatever
black and white stagnation this world’s been a wasting in at times recently.
His nerve and daring equal only
to the complete and unwavering realization of whatever spark incited this undertaking.
Perhaps one of the deeper satisfaction’s is a dawning awareness of the extraordinary depths of
artistic freedom that are possible in these times, this climate, erupting out from beneath
his iconic persona, as well as the obviously undeniable rewards of his much heralded devotion and fidelity to
a singular personal voice and vision, not the least bit deterred with what
anyone else was up to, or might think of it.
clones have missed the point entirely when they ‘target’ men over women for certain types of films,
and foolishly group this one along those same lines. As far as women are concerned, no other film has
so completely surrendered bias toward either gender and radiated more sympathy, and respect
toward the very strongest aspects of the female experience. The films who condescend to females by
pandering to perceived limitations are really painting target marks upon them as if women were beneath
the range of the whole human experience. This film allows for equality like no other.
Even creating a female character that really, in the annuls of historical relevance
(within Mr. Tarantino’s universe) would be by far the most steadfast bad ass
when it comes down to excellence in execution.
This world, both the real one and the artful haven of the imaginary needs more than ever
Quentin Tarantino’s relentlessly conscious vibrancy as ceaseless as the undercurrent
of gentle observations,
that thread through almost painfully beautiful cinematography, that frame by frame, reminds one
of other countless masters, of oil paintings and architecture and of course film.
If you turned the lusciously enthralling soundtrack off, and simply looked at each frame
alone, each tells a striking solid story, postcards from textural worlds of color, shapes and
imminent unfolding. This world needs a dramatic enactment of so many of Mr. Tarantino’s ‘what ifs’
- – -
not just the obvious ones where wars are won in a sacred blaze of mortality smoke upon which the visage of
beauty is the lingering holiest of ghosts haunting and being haunted by the cinema… the world needs this film’s many
delicate ambiguities in an imaginary ‘what if’ that can and will,
change the face of everything to come for the next
decade or two.
And, it has arrived in the shape of “Inglourious Basterds”