The seventh film from Quentin Tarantino, as the tagline should read, Inglourious Basterds may just be the American Auteurs finest piece to date. Coming across like the basterd (pun intended) lovechild of The Last Metro and The Dirty Dozen, Inglourious Basterds represents an evolutionary step in the way that Tarantino works as a filmmaker, and his understanding of the medium. It’s a miraculously entertaining piece of work from a filmmaker that I have found it increasingly difficult to get excited about, and just about his most successful work to date.

Detailing the plot of Inglourious Basterds is a deceivingly difficult task. What may appear on the outside to be a standard men on a mission war film (courtesy of an ad campaign that reeks of an attempt at pleasing the masses) is actually a very different beast. To say that the plot is eclectic wouldn’t be unjust or untrue, as we follow the several different paths that make up the bigger tale. The most immediate of these stories is the one concerning our eponymous ‘basterds’, a term purposefully misspelt, although for what reason exactly is destined to remain a mystery. Personally I think it’s a play on pronunciation, which would tie in nicely to the multi-lingual nature of the film at hand. Anyway, I digress. So, we follow the basterds, a group of Jewish-American soldiers as they launch an attack behind enemy lines in Nazi-occupied France. Their leader Aldo Raine (played by Brad Pitt in a role that reminds of his earlier, more esoterically work) is part-Apache, and so the basterds employ traditional Native American methods of inducing fear upon their enemies, with such acts as scalping and facial carvery on offer to any German soldiers unlucky enough to cross their path. The second story that makes up Inglourious Basterds details the plight of Shosanna Dreyfus (the obscenely charming Mélanie Laurent) a Jewish orphan that’s family fell at the hands of Hans Landa, “The Jew Hunter” (Christophe Waltz in the best performance of the film). After an opening sequence, in which we see Shosanna flee from the site of her family’s murder, the timeline fast tracks to several years later and 1944. Shosanna is running a cinema in Paris, and partaking in a secret relationship with the mysterious Franco-African projectionist that works alongside her. It is through a mutual love of the cinematograph that Shosanna meets Fredrick Zoller (Daniel Bruhl) a young Nazi-poster boy, who has gained the status of borderline celebrity due to an act of bravery. Said act of bravery then spawns a propaganda film worthy of Adolf Hitler’s attention, and a situation that sees Hitler, Joseph Goebbels and the rest of the Nazi top tier attending Shosanna’s cinema. Shosanna sees this as her opportunity to exact revenge on the regime that saw her family die, and hatches a plan that runs concurrently, while not in twine with, that of the arrangements of Aldo Raine and the Basterds.

While what I have outlined above represents the backbone of the story of Inglourious Basterds it’s worth noting that the film splits off into strands and diatribes that occasionally have little to do with the actual plot of the film. To expect anything less would be a misgiving on behalf of an audience aware of the work of Quentin Tarantino, and as such these strands should be actively celebrated as key to the style of our filmmaker, as opposed to rubbished and tagged as egotistical, as they have been by some critics. The main offender in this respect is a scene midway through involving a British lieutenant, a German movie star and a bar full of Nazi soldiers. Twenty-five minutes of exposition is followed by two minutes of gunfire that render the preceding exposition meaningless, outside of immediacy at least. It doesn’t serve the plot in the traditional sense of moving things forward, in fact if anything it delays progress, but as a trademark of Tarantino it works. This is what an audience should have come to expect from the man that brought them Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown, which are hardly slight, finely tuned narrative structures. Tarantino’s work is flabby and inconsistent, but that’s part of their appeal. To dismiss certain portions of his work for being overly talky, or too slow is to misunderstand the point of his work entirely.

“Enormous changes at the last minute? That’s not very “Germatic.” Why the hell is Goebbels doing stuff so damn peculiar?” Lt. Aldo Raine.

As with most of the films of Quentin Tarantino, it is the performances of his actors that really push the film. In an attempt to build tension I will discuss the roles that were merely great, before leading up to the powerhouse performance that stands central to the film. Brad Pitt is surprisingly wonderful as Aldo Raine. Nonplussed in the past by some of his more comedic roles (most recently in Burn After Reading), I was prepared to not get on with Pitt’s portrayal. Alas my fears were proven unnecessary, as Pitt’s Aldo is an enjoyable and memorable turn. He was actually downright hilarious in parts too, with the “Italian” scene a comic highlight of 2009. It was this scene that actually sold another of the performances on me, in the form of writer-director Eli Roth’s Donny Donowitz. Up until this moment I had found him to be an actor who seemed incapable of adequately delivering even the hammiest of lines, and ultimately poorly miscast, but with that same scene a charm that must have been exude from Brad Pitt washed over Roth and I actually found myself enjoying being in his company. I’m still convinced that the inclusion of Roth is little more than a nod towards the casting of my beloved John Cassavetes in The Dirty Dozen though. As for the other Basterds, B.J Novak pulls in an effective turn, as does Til Schweiger, whose Hugo Stiglitz is introduced via a pseudo-comedy-news-article narrated by Samuel L. Jackson. It is a product of the films restrictive running time (in context to the large plot it contains) that we don’t get to really meet the other six men that make up the ranks of the Basterds.

As an almost counterpoint to the masculine effervescence that the Basterds exude there are two very strong female characters in the guise of Laurent’s Shosanna Dreyfus, and Diane Kruger’s Bridget von Hammersmark, the famous German movie star (and double agent) at the center of the bar scene that I mentioned above. Kruger appears to be channeling Dietrich and both roles sit nicely alongside Tarantino’s trademark strong females (Pam Grier, Uma Thurman), in turns that are heavily reminiscent of 1980’s Catherine Deneuve. They also provide yet another narrative form, in that their roles (well Laurent’s role), is an attempt at forming a moral and emotive backbone to the story. Confused and untrustworthy towards Daniel Bruhl’s Hugo Stiglitz, there is a hint of a retort towards inevitability in their “relationship”. In a traditional Hollywood take on this subject matter we would no doubt have seen the two of these get together, regardless of the absurdity of the concept of a relationship forming between a Jewish girl left orphaned at the hand of the third reich and that of their current poster boy. Bruhl is great in the role though, and while he is somewhat unlikable at times this is perfectly of trait of his characters confused situation. While we’re on the subject, Laurent’s actual beau, Jacky Ido’s Marcel may appear only briefly, but his presence is certainly felt. There is a shot of him from behind, as he gazes upon the reels of film that will seal the fates of the entrenched Nazi’s sat gazing at the silver screen that proves a beautiful light source for our protagonist. I would go as far as to say it’s the single most beautiful shot that Tarantino has ever given us. Hunger’s Michael Fassbender provided what I would deem my personal favourite appearance. Portraying British lieutenant Archie Hicox, in a role originally deemed for Simon Pegg, Fassbender steals the brief section of the film that he appears in and more than leaves his mark. Mike Myers makes a brief appearance alongside an Albert Finney-esque  take on Winston Churchill, and actually manages to achieve what I had long thought impossible; for the first time since a trip to see Wayne’s World 2 on my 12th Birthday Mike Myers actually made me laugh.

And now onto the aforementioned “powerhouse” performance.

A lot has already been made of Christoph Waltz’s turn in Inglourious Basterds, and that is for a reason. The character and performance are staggering in scope, with his “Jew Hunter” being equal amounts charming as he is terrifying. He is also completely hilarious. It is the unpredictable nature of Waltz’s Hans Landa lends the film its overall tone, which is perhaps the ultimate compliment one can pay towards a performance (in that his turn actually gives the film it’s entire sense of meaning and standing). From the moment go we don’t know who (contextually) is telling the truth, and who has ulterior motives. The bitter sweet twist of sorts that comes with the films climax (carvery) proves to be the ultimate spin and pratfall for the offending character at the heart of the scene. The film ultimately ends on the rather unique positive (for a World War Two film with its usually inevitable ending). Tarantino’s reasoning/explanation of this slant on tackling history actually pushes what seemed charming into the borderline profound; his Inglourious Basterds, and its eventual outcome represent a what if scenario within a what if scenario, a scenario in itself that could be interpreted as being bona-fide deep! Likewise, an incredibly funny, and almost charming aside involving a parlour game and the punch line “King Kong” manages to break off midway through for a darker aside. In Landa, Waltz gives us one of the single most compellingly watchable and downright horrifying screen villains. The acolades he accrued for the role at Cannes prove well and truly appropriate, as would academy recognition next spring. His turn as an expert linguist also mirrors the multi-lingual nature of the film, in which at least four different languages appear on screen. The fact that a heavy portion of the film is subtitled may not lend itself well commercially to the film, but in terms of credibility it works wonders.

“Is that the way you say it: That’s a bingo?” Hans Landa – The Jew Hunter.

Stylistically Inglourious Basterds is largely removed from his recent output. Gone are attempts to replicate the trashier side of the cinema, and in come lush visuals and metaphorical technical devices. He has also ushered in his first real attempt at bona-fide suspense, with the poster advertising Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Le Corbeau more than a simple attempt at referencing pop culture, for Tarantino appears to be channeling the two masters of suspense, Clouzot and Hitchcock on more than one occasion. The most notable tense moment comes in the opening chapter, whereby Hans Landa confronts a French farmer about harbouring Jewish “enemies of the state”. For 25 minutes we the audience are left upon the edge of our seat, unable to decipher Landa’s character. What more, we know it’s going to end badly, but not when. In this respect I was reminded of Clouzot’s Wages of Fear, perhaps the single tensest film I have ever experienced. That this tension would carry beyond the opening chapter, and through to the films eventual finale was something I wasn’t expecting, nor prepared for. Similarly chapter three of the film was deemed to be “shot in French New-Wave Black and White” in the script for Inglourious Basterds, and while this visual target was left unused, the overall New Wave tone remains. The way in which Fredrick Zoller attempts to woo Shosanna Dreyfus with discussion of popular culture and cinema reminds of Godard’s A Woman Is A Woman and Bande A Part, and the central protagonists attempts to woo Anna Karina. The rejection and perseverance of Zoller also reminds of these films, as well as the likes of Truffaut’s Jules et Jim. The film feels like an adoration of the Cinema beyond that of the New Wave, with all manner of range being touched upon. The opening scene is almost spaghetti western by way of Robert Bresson.

Film references are rife throughout Inglourious Basterds, but instead of feeling like cheap homage (as both Kill Bill and Death Proof could be accused of) Inglourious Basterds actually emits a clear love and respect for the cinema. How many major American productions mention UFA? Or would name a mission after Kino International, the art house distribution label? This is a film more at home alongside The Last Metro, or Pierrot Le Fou, or even Cinema Paradiso, in that it is the work of a director clearly in love with the medium. It is explorational in it’s love, in that it is not afraid to channel, or to journey through whatever the director feels is necessary to tell his tale. The films attitude towards history, and its removal from actual history hints at a filmmaker not egotistical, but reasonably exploring the medium that he is working within, and actually has more to do with the fantasy style of the film. The changes were appropriate to the world in which the film took place. It isn’t a historical piece; it is pure fantasy, a fairytale, and all the more refreshing for it.

The score to Inglourious Basterds is formed in the usual Tarantino manner of using ‘found’ pieces. Apparently down to his mistrust of allowing others to provide such a pivotal portion of his film, Tarantino once again succeeds in compiling a wonderful array of second hand film scores and lost gems. Most of the tracks stem from the baton of Ennio Morricone, although a few oddities do creep in, with the use of David Bowie’s Cat People being the most bizarre. The portion of the film that Bowie’s piece accompanies is shot to look like an early MTV video crossed with something akin to Luc Besson’s La Femme Nikita, and while strikingly out of place it actually helps to reinforce the fun nature of the film. I couldn’t help but be reminded of Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette though. Interestingly, Tarantino actually lifts music from his own films, with several cues from Kill Bill evident.

The film closes with the words “this might be my masterpiece”, muttered by one of the few surviving basterds (and indeed characters), which is no doubt an aside to his own audience on the behalf of Tarantino. While I’m not usually one to encourage hyperbole, this may just be the case. The film is certainly Tarantino’s best made piece to date, with Robert Richardson’s photography astounding in parts, and I know this sounds premature (and liable to make me look foolish), but Inglourious Basterds feels as though it will age well.