INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS IS QUENTIN TARANTINO’S MOST MATURE WORK AS A FILM MAKER. QUENTIN IS THE CHAGALL OF GENRE…

By that I do not mean visual phantasmagoria, rather the way he mixes the thematic cocktail. An unconventional combination of ideas which is constantly interesting with each new painting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A week ago Quentin had invited the surviving members of the Grindhouse Gang - Film Editor for the LA WEEKLY Scott Foundas, directors Richard Rush, George Armitage, Alan Arkush, Lewis Teague and myself to a screening at his house. Missing was Bob Clark, killed along with his son by a drunk driver just 10 days after the Grindhouse Gang’s last dinner in 2007. I recently directed a re-imagining of Bob Clark’s PORKY’S franchise. In tribute to Bob, Quentin first played the original theatrical trailer of PORKY’S, followed by trailers from the other directors early work. Ales were uncapped and the main feature rolled.

The film starts in 1941, the year my father was shot down over France, parachuting into a field surrounded by German soldiers. (There is a small point to this family history) The officer in charge actually addressed him with the famous cliché: “For you the war is over.” My father dug tunnels for the Great Escape. The escapees drew lots for their order of exit. He drew ninety something. Halfway down the tunnel he heard gunfire, just after number 73 ran into the woods. The thwarted escape was just as well perhaps, because Hitler ordered 50 recaptured officers to be shot. So I am steeped in World War Two lore. It’s been a fascination of mine - and the baby boomer audience - since childhood, as we wonder how we would stand up to the perils that faced our fathers. BASTERDS will entertain not only Tarantino’s youthful fan base but an older generation as well. It will have a special resonance for European audiences.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But I’m not a WWII purist, satisfied only by the authenticity of KANAL, A BRIDGE TOO FAR, PRIVATE RYAN etc. Like KELLY’S HEROES, war movies can be wacky fun and this one certainly is. To get the full benefit of any Tarantino movie, you have to enter his alternative universe without reservation. So to the nay-sayers who quibble too long/too episodic/too fanciful/too much chat, etc., I am tempted to say eat shit and die; but instead I will suggest they are missing out on a delicious post modern layer cake full of quirky characters, surprising plot developments, and wry asides running the gamut from WWII cliché to riffs on the etiquette of strudel and the power of cinema.

The story is driven by two totally balls-to-the-wind performances that set the tone for the movie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brad Pitt‘s sadistic hillbilly commander, complete with gloriously fulsome accent, is a worthy addition to his gallery of oddballs, which best display his acting chops. The unexplained rope burn on his neck is a clever touch, prompting the audience’s subconscious to speculate on the cause, thereby deepening the character without spending any screen time on the subject. Quentin will probably tell you the backstory on the eventual DVD.

Christoph Waltz’s villain is as groundbreaking a piece of work as was Alan Rickman’s criminal mastermind in the first DIE HARD.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He does a daring high-wire act every scene, sometimes in three languages, always theatrical but never straying into camp, and is totally fascinating to watch. Till Quentin cast him, he was a well thought of German television actor. Now he is the beneficiary of a Cannes Film Festival Best Actor award. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got a Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination for a performance of such impish evil charm.

Martin Wuttke’s brings intriguing new flavors to the latest screen Hitler. The red lining to his cape in his introductory scene is another nice touch, immediately establishing that sense of grandiosity that all dictators assume.

 

 

 

 

 

 

For comparison here is the winner of the “My Cat Looks Like Hitler “ competition. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, there really is such a thing. Check out the site. www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com

Some critics are like eunuchs at the orgy. They can’t to it , so they bitch about people who can. Other critics have a blinkered vision that can only define an auteur’s work by what they have done in the past. They would criticize Picasso for daring to paint a Gainsborough. Get used to it, guys: every Tarantino movie is one of a kind, pushing new boundaries, breaking new rules. BASTERDS - as some have complained - is not an action picture, though the action, when unleashed in a blizzard of well framed shots, is masterfully staged. Unlike other disjunctively-cut/overly-telephoto action scenes of some recent movies, a clear sense of geography makes the BASTERDS action more impactful and involving.

BASTERDS is a unique subset of the Men on a Mission genre: World War Two Revenge Fantasy Black Comedy as devised by the world’s greatest authority on genre. It is a character based suspense piece, re-arranging some WWII Iconography in an entertaining way. Above all, it is a Tarantino dialogue piece, a cinematic play, with all the riffs and digressions that implies, climaxing in the best ending ever for a WWII movie. You get a sense of the fun Quentin was having in this teaser.

The assembled Grindhouse Gang loved the movie. (It got an 11 minute standing ovation at Cannes) Our applause did not last as long, because…we were hungry. We all went out for dinner, and bombarded Quentin with questions. His answers confirmed that BASTERDS is definitely a movie to see twice.

INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS opens in the US on August 21. I’ll be there.

BEAUTY PAGEANTS, PLUTOCRATS, AND INGRAINED RACISM - A TALE FROM LIVE TELEVISION IN 1972

With an African American finally in the White House, the extreme right media blowhards have been busy playing the race card, albeit in code. When the Mountainous Rushmore called President Obama “a reverse racist” for appointing a Latina to the US Supreme Court, it was a case of the pot belly calling the kettle fat. Click the double-verging-on-triple-chin to hear the radio clip.

Limbaugh’s gleeful repeat playing of the “Barack the Magic Negro” song was indicative of how deep are the roots of his racism. I suspect when he thinks of Obama, the word that Rush uses in his heart, if not on air, has not been in common parlance for 50 years or so. Here’s an account of the last time I heard the “N” word spoken at a public gathering.

I was associate producer and director of film sequences for QUEST OF QUESTS, a yearly beauty pageant show broadcast by the Nine Network live across Australia from the ballroom of Sydney’s Wentworth Hotel. 200 high society guests, fortified by food and liquor, sat at tables to watch 22 contestants parade in evening gowns and swimsuits, vying for the crown. I have since come to view such beauty pageants as perpetuating the stereotype of woman as handmaiden, but for a 25 year old guy they sure were fun to work on. In the days leading up to the broadcast, I had shot film sequences on each girl depicting their favorite hobby. (For instance young Belinda Green from Tasmania, later to become Miss World, was a dab hand at finger painting.) Beauty, beauty everywhere, but not a drop to drink. Courtesy of the vigilant chaperone and den mother to the girls Mrs. Marjorie Colebrook, a tireless organizer and great lady who requested my participation two years running.

My major responsibility during the telecast itself was to ensure that all the contestants and guest judges were at the right place at the right time. The Guest of Honor was former Miss Grenada, Jennifer Holstein, the first black woman to win a major international beauty contest (I forget which). She was a charming statuesque beauty. Imagine a young Michelle Obama.

Sitting beside Jennifer Holstein at the high table overlooking the ballroom - the rich have their pecking order too - was the owner of the Network Sir Frank Packer (right), one of the three robber barons of Australian media, the others being Fairfax and Murdoch. Rupert may be the last man standing now, but Packer was the undoubted titan at the time. This portrait was painted by Judy Cassab and is on display at the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra.

Halfway through the show, I approached the high table to collect Ms. Holstein for her next appearance on the stage. I was wearing a dinner jacket as all crew on the show were required to do. Sir Frank immediately mistook me for a waiter and said, “Get me a whiskey and soda.” So I quickly guided Ms. Holstein to her designated entrance point, then went in search of the requisite whisky and soda. It was not wise to ignore an instruction from Sir Frank, who reputedly fired a copy boy for speaking to him in the elevator. Given the overworked waiter staff, the quickest solution was to buy the scotch myself from the bar. Back at the high table I placed the tumbler beside Sir Frank and picked up his empty glass. Well, not quite empty. Sir Frank’s hand clamped firmly around my wrist, and without a word, tipped the dregs into the new glass. You do not fight the hand that feeds you. It was an indication of how the man turned a small newspaper into a media empire.

Eventually the winning girls were announced. Joy, tears, roll end credits. The live feed to the nation concluded. Just as well. Because at that point the sponsor of the show joined the guest judges on the stage and addressed the audience in the ballroom. Sir John Walton, knighted for his services to commerce, chairman of Waltons department stores offered his thanks to all who made the show possible. Standing right beside Jennifer Holstein, the very embodiment of black is beautiful, he thanked her for coming all the way to Australia. She received enthusiastic applause. Then Sir John turned his attention to the Quest organizer sitting in the audience. He offered particular thanks “to Mrs. Marjorie Colebrook, who has worked like a nigger.”

There was no discernable intake of breath from the audience, more a moment when 200 people involuntarily stop breathing. A sharp silence like a puff of cold air. Then Sir John continued on oblivious. I was too far back in the hall to gauge Jennifer Holstein’s reaction. But she remained on the stage. Would anyone believe this moment if they read it in a screenplay? Naturally it was never reported. Today it would be all over Youtube and TMZ in minutes. Remember that Michael Richards (Seinfeld’s Kramer) racist rant?

The irony of Sir John’s use of the “N” word was that he intended the word as a compliment. Negroes, like the show’s organizer, were hard working people.

I am sure he apologized later. I heard a rumor that Sir Frank apologized on behalf of the network and that Ms. Holstein had been gracious. Sir John meant no insult. He just had not shaken off the ingrained racial attitudes of his parent’s generation. It was a slip of the tongue.

With Limbaugh, and fellow narcissistic escapees from anger management class, Hannity, Beck, and Savage, their rhetoric is no accident. It is carefully calculated then wrapped in code. But when an “entertainer” says the President is a greater enemy of the United States than Al Qaeda, he has crossed the line into incitement. There is no doubt in my mind that the recent murders committed by right wing crazies are a result of the toxification of political discourse that has developed over the last 20 years, particularly since the 2000 election. So will they dial it down? For the greater good?

No. They have no shame.