Inglourious Basterds: A Masterpiece?

What makes a masterpiece? I have explored this question several times in recent essays, attempting to determine a set of consistent aesthetic principles with regards to cinema, with most of my efforts resulting in a virtual stalemate. In the end, it remains one of those indefinable terms, those terms untenable at best, that can only be thought of in the words once applied to offensive material: "I know it when I see it." With this in mind, there are a few of us cinephiles who have been avidly awaiting the release of Tarantino's new film Inglourious Basterds and the time has come to respond to Tarantino's wildly provocative claim that this film is his masterpiece (a claim he doesn't hesitate to include in the actual film).

Basterds revolves around the guerrilla antics of Lt Aldo Raine's "elite" group of soldiers, though elite isn't quite the word. No, they are simply Jewish soldiers, not taken for their bellicose abilities, but instead for their ability to exact revenge in an overpoweringly sadistic fashion. Raine infamously demands a hundred Nazi scalps, and he will get those scalps. The other plot (the one that doesn't quite feel like the Tarantino of the 90's, but rather the Tarantino of Kill Bill Vol. 2) follows the story of a beautiful Jewish woman named Shosanna Dreyfus, who takes refuge in Paris, hiding in plain sight by running a local cinema. She finds herself serendipitously in a position to host a film premiere for Nazis only, granting her an opportunity for her own revenge. That revenge stems from the opening scene in which her parents and brother are massacred.

Each plot contributes something very specific to the film, something that he has been trying ceaselessly to attain since he started making films. Tarantino is first and foremost a lover of films, a filmmaker whose love of cinema can be seen in every frame of that visceral 35mm film stock. He quotes images like others quote people. For though this film has frequently been called a revenge fantasy, the emphasis has been erroneously placed on revenge, when in truth this is a highly fantastical film. The action takes place in a mythological landscape, whose denizens are not Greek gods but rather celluloid heroes. Aldo Raine is really Aldo Ray, a veteran and actor who starred in several WWII films. His motley band of semitic misfits are really the Dirty Dozen. To name all the connections, would be a Herculean task, and one that would take a knowledge of cinema much more extensive than mine. A friend thought of Scarface and the Godfather Part III during some scenes. The opening scene alone contains effortless, seamless, and utterly casual throwbacks to films as varied as Grand Illusion (an early French WWI film), the 400 Blows (a sample from the French New Wave), as well as Leon the Professional (a film in the footsteps of Tarantino's early work). In fact his ability to visually quote is rivaled only by his spiritual predecessor, and headliner of the afore mentioned French New Wave, Jean Luc Godard (who directed Band a part, the film from which Tarantino takes the name of his production company).

It is from this love of cinema that this film reaches its richest symbolism. Don't be fooled, this is not a film about war. It is quite simply a film, like the rest of his canon, about the power of cinema. It has the power to make us love Shosanna, hate Hans Landa (the Jew Hunter), pity Frederick Zoller, whoop at the brutal torture of the Nazis. But even within the film, Cinema has the power to let us hide from evil forces. It keeps Shosanna safe in a world that doesn't want her. But it is also a weapon. It is used by Goebbels, the propaganda minister, to spread his ethos. Even in the final scenes film becomes quite literally the weapon used to fight the Nazis. But it is not just a negative force. It is also the thing that Zoller and Shosanna have in common despite their incredibly relevant differences.

But Tarantino doesnt restrict himself to these timeless discussions. He also makes sure to make some points along the way. For instance, there are contrasting adjacent scenes in which Hans Landa discusses the inhumanity of the Jews, and Aldo Raine discusses the inhumanity of the Nazis. This comparison is perhaps the boldest statement Tarantino has ever made, as it points out the fact that robbing anyone of their humanity, even Hitler, is to join his ranks. The Nazis have always had detractors, in fact that is a huge understatement. In reality, they are the most reviled political movement in history. But to deny them proper consideration as humans is a sin too great for words. In a later scene, Raine makes a comment about how seeing Donny go to town on Nazis is the closest they get to going to the movies (torture is even the cinema here) seems strangely relevant in the wake of Abu Ghraib.

So the question still remains: is this film the masterpiece touted with such certainty by the man himself? My answer is yes. It is a masterpiece. It is his masterpiece. It is not a greater film than Pulp Fiction, but it is certainly the best since. Kill Bill was restrained by its own tropes, the characters had to follow their allotted paths in order for the film to work. The Bride had to Kill Bill, she had to get her pound of flesh, but she also needed to have reconciliation. These were all standards of the genres he was toying with. But this film keeps you guessing, because the characters, in spite of being timeless, recognize the infinite permutations of their archetypes. It is never self-indulgent, except perhaps for the last line. The dialogue is consistently great, against all odds, considering four languages are spoken at length in the film. Perhaps the dialogue isnt the Tarantino quick-fire hard-boiled stuff we know and love, but it is consistently taut and well executed. The cinematography, as I mentioned, pops as always with that tangibility that is only ever had on 35mm. But the real reason why this is a masterpiece, is none of these. Or perhaps it is all of them, violently synthesized. The reason it is a masterpiece is because it is the culmination of Tarantino's directorial efforts. He has tapped into film noir, pulp fiction (pun necessary), blaxploitation, spaghetti westerns, samurai flicks, martial arts films, and grindhouse cinema. Each time he has expressed his love for a specific set of films. But only in Basterds does that love become universal. Only in Basterds does he stop the senseless revelry, and maturely recognize that even cinema has its own evil history. Only in Basterds does every frame he has ever shot come all of a sudden into deep focus. And Tarantino forces you to either reject the cinema as the Nazis rejected the Jews, or to instead embrace it, love it as he does, in spite of its shortcomings.

Cinema as Secular Prayer

There is something mystical about the moment when the lights begin to dim in a crowded movie house. The reel changes from trailer to film with a jarring series of clicks, and in the best of times, the theater goes silent. We sit there in the austere tranquility, drinking up the shadow puppets acting out their play, occasionally contemplating their significances, or otherwise simply existing in a sort of refined ecstasy for 2 hours. It draws us in collectively and yet still personally to partake of a shared experience: the beholding of something that seems in those darkened hours to be greater than ourselves.

In fact, there is not much difference between this cinematic experience and prayer. In the darkened theater, everyone is on the same page, everyone leaves their baggage at the door to delight in the simplicity or complexity, whatever may be the case, of the film being shown. It is as if we are all kneeling to a secular deity, a deity of film, who will take away our worries for awhile, never promising resolution, only offering solace. Our heads are not bowed, instead we stare reverently up at the screen, speaking in silence, seeking community amidst our solitude.

But with this analogy in place, it seems that we have lost something over the years. Instead of allowing the emotion and catharsis to wash over us in a deluge of release, we demand certain reactions and reflections, we insist on feeling a certain way about films. We no longer respect them. When we go to see a standard rom-com, we are either disappointed or elated because it made us laugh and cry all at once. But our attitude towards it is one of superiority, as if we have the right to condemn it for becoming the very thing that our insistence has forced it to become. Filmmakers, if those who churn out the drivel to which I refer can even call themselves that, must make films that appeal to everyone, that elicit a very specific set of emotions, that follow a tried and true method. Little room is given for innovation. But when we walk out disappointed because they don't feel natural, we should insist on originality, not on adherence to a norm. We should foster creativity, not allow functionaries behind a camera to call themselves artists.

In the older cinemas, there was an architectural oddity (that became the standard) that served as a pleasantly coincidental and surprisingly symbolic barometer of our appreciation of cinema in years past, an appreciation that has since become lost in the shuffle, though not irretrievably so. It was usually the case that the screen was situated above the eye-line of everyone except the projectionist. We were forced to be lower than the screen, to perpetuate our gaze of reverence directed upward, recognizing its superiority to us. Now, because it is architecturally and acoustically better, the screen is located at or below our eye-line. We look down on it, as a symbol of our supposed subjugation of it. One difference between Catholics and Protestants is the tradition of kneeling during prayer. When you kneel in the Catholic church you perform an action of only symbolic value, an action devoid of intrinsic meaning, but brimming with implicit significance. If you kneel, you actively recognize God's superior role. You may still be able to make this recognition without kneel, but the constant reminder isn't there. It is the same way with the cinema: having the screen located below us, and not being accustomed to our newfound place in the theater, it is easy to forget the beautiful moments of profound serenity that accompany true emotion, true pathos appearing on that screen.