Inglourious Basterds? Yes.

Well, I saw it. And I laughed. And I really enjoyed myself.

I mean, what could possibly be more pleasing than taking in a film that crosses more genres than Big Trouble in Little China? What makes you laugh more than seeing HUGO STIGLITZ bursting in Blaxplotation brilliance? What is more incredible than hearing the haunting tones of Ennio Morricone in the midst of war-torn, German-occupied France? What could be more wonderful than seeing a man bash in another man’ skull with a bat? What could be more awesome than watching a bunch of Jewish-Americans make sure those disgusting Nazi’s get what they deserve? What could be more incredible…

You see where I’m going.

Okay, Tarantino is an incredible filmmaker. And I think that this movie shows his gifts. The humor is subtle yet hysterical. The mixing of genres stirs my soul - I understand that impulse, I love it. It was perfectly acted. Really. And honestly, who can deny a film that blatantly changes history? Brilliant.

But the problem with the movie is that it stands overagainst everything that I stand for. Perhaps it is just a movie. Perhaps it is just a setting for Tarantino to explore the movies that he loved growing up. Perhaps it is just a good story about how he might want to imagine that WWII should have ended.

But I guess that is, for me, no excuse. Because nothing is just an anything, and this certainly is not just a movie. It represents all of the glorified nationalism that America has felt at least since the turn of the century, and the glorified nationalism that still wants to make its enemies un-human. It glorifies violence (even if it is the outrageous Tarantino type violence) not only as cool, or romantic, but as the appropriate response to the destructive impulses of others. And it happens at just the right season for Americans – to transfer so easily unto the beastly enemies we face now: those who hate us for our freedoms. It gives us a posture to keep having toward our enemies, and just the right kind of heroes to hope for.

Now, we might say that Tarantino is intending this very overdramatized nonsense to actually act as critique. Or we could say that the outrageousness of the violence makes for showing the evil and roughness and awkwardness of it all. But I don’t think so. I think we’re supposed to laugh when Aldo the Apache demands his scalps. I think we supposed to cringe when the Bear beats the living shit out that German’s head, but we’re also supposed to awe at the raw American power, because that’s what happens when you mess with us. I think we’re supposed to sigh satisfaction when we blow the theatre, and when Hitler’s face is made mush by pounding of our bullets. And I think we’re supposed to agree with Tarantino – that’s the way it should’ve all ended. That’s how we should’ve ended it.

I could be wrong in my assessment of Tarantino’s intentions. But if I’m not, then I don’t agree. And what bothers me the most is that, though I sensed this disapproval not ten minutes into the film, I did laugh. I was awed, and I was satisfied. Whatever Tarantino grabbed with his inglourious art was deep inside of me. And that’s what scares me.