If the societal revenge flick genre didn’t exist before, it does now with Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds, a multi-threaded re-imagining in which Hitler and the Nazis get what’s coming a lot sooner than historical truth and, 
as one would expect from the reining cineaste auteur, with a visual and narrative flourish that no one could have expected from a World War II drama. In fact, one of the joys of the film is that the narrative path of this story is so fresh and unexpected that even though you know (or think you know) what lies at end of the road, you are constantly taken on unexpected turns.
Throughout his relatively short but accomplished career so far (tonight Tarantino accepted a career achievement award from Cinema/Chicago, the organization behind the Chicago International Film Festival), Tarantino has played off and against genre expectations. What is remarkable about his craftsmanship, though, is that unlike many filmmakers who admire and replicate other films, he seems to understand what makes certain elements within the universe of film language work, that is, connect with an audience to achieve a desired effect.
Of the many things one can admire in Tarrantino’s latest extravaganza, some simple observations are telling.
First, this is a long film (2 hours and 33 minutes to be exact) and yet it doesn’t feel like it. I have enjoyed many a film that, nonetheless, caused me to fidget or time-glance two-thirds of the way through, when the film is struggling to close the deal. Not so here. Second, and related to the first, when the end title card flashes, it is received with that perfect mix of satisfaction with a tinge of disappointment of being deprived of following the story to its very bitter end.
Third, and I haven’t said this about a film since David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence (which was, in my estimation, the best film of 2005), Inglourious Basterds treats audience tension like an instrument, orchestrating it from the first, quiet, uncomfortable scene and, what’s more, maintaining and modulating the tension throughout the entire film. That first scene, set on a farm in rural France, introduces us to Colonel Hans Landa (played absolutely marvelously by Christoph Waltz) — that rare villain who can generate both real terror and absurd levity, sometimes in the same breath. The initial chapter also initiates one of the film’s two main narrative arcs, that of Shosanna Dreyfus (Mélanie Laurent), whose family is brutally exterminated at the hands of Landa.
Fourth, and finally, Tarantino isn’t precious with his characters, no matter how well developed they are or how well embodied by the actors. The story must be served, and in its service, characters with real magnetism are sometimes sacrificed. Besides Waltz and Laurent, Brad Pitt, Diane Kruger, and Daniel Brühl are just the top of a large ensemble cast which, for the most part, is uniformly excellent. (The notable exception is Mike Myers, who just can’t help but put a “schwing” twinkle in the eye of his make-up laden British General. It’s a scene steeped in parody of British idiosyncrasy, yet the other two actors in the room get the subtle tone that seems to escape Myers.)
Brad Pitt has and will get a lot of attention for his role as Lt. Aldo Raine, the leader of the Basterds (the rag tag group of Jewish brutes whose story forms the second major narrative sewn into the film). But he is, after all, Brad Pitt, and movies must be marketed. But the best thing about his role, much to his and Tarantino’s credit, is that like his colleagues, Pitt doesn’t allow a character even as large as Raine to become bigger than the story he serves.
Then there’s the violence. You can’t expect a revenge picture, especially a societal revenge picture (after a brief Google search, I’ve recklessly decided that I have coined that term), to get away without shedding some blood, or in this case, detaching some scalps. In this case, however, there are moments (quite a few, actually) in which the audience is meant to feel discomfort or disgust about the unmitigated graphic portrayal of corporal mutilation. Having no intention of seeing any of Eli Roth’s work from behind the camera (or that of his “torture porn” compatriots), I can’t say how what we see here compares to the recent trend toward audaciously grisly cinema. I wonder though if Tarantino couldn’t have told his story, and evoked some of the same underlying ideas about which side of any bloody conflict is entitled to feel noble about its bloodshed, yet turned back the blood dial slightly. For an otherwise masterful achievement that seems remarkably self-assured with regard to its tone, I submit that the amount and degree of visual carnage in Inglourious Basterds is the one area in which Tarantino was overly indulgent.
Here are this morning’s Oscar-nominated films, alphabetically. The nominees for foreign language film and documentary feature are compiled at the end of the list. (Short format nominees are listed in a 
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