Quentin Tarantino is one sick guy.
As I viewed the denouement of his latest film, “Inglorious Basterds” this evening, that was all I could think. What. A sick. Mofo.
Don’t get me wrong. “Basterds” is a wonderful film. Stellar. 24 thumbs up. One does not at all feel its 153 minutes. This despiteno, this due to—long running scenes of dialogue that are—absolutely captivating. There is a scene that one thinks might become the whole of the movie—and one would not mind if it did. The tension “Basterds” is capable of inflicting, it is lovely.
But while Tarantino brandishes a palette, he works with a grid. There is yet another storyline miracle in “Basterds,” somewhat like that in “Pulp Fiction.” I don’t want to ruin it for you. Because it is the notion that kicks it in the pants about this movie in the car on the way home.