If you were to take the mind of an adolescent male and somehow fuse it with that of a sophisticated film auteur, you would end up with Quentin Tarantino. (Beavis meets Bergman, I guess you could say.)
Indeed, on its most basic level, Inglourious Basterds advances a simplistic premise: Killing Nazis is cool! And killing lots of Nazis in lots of different ways is even cooler.
No argument here. But amid all the killing, Tarantino takes time to have scenes that are breathtakingly beautiful, suspenseful, audacious, hilarious, and, yes, even reverent to the filmmakers who have preceded him (the old cinephile video store employee in Tarantino still lives on).
He tells his story in chapters. In chapter one, we meet a French dairy farmer who is harboring a family of Jews in his floorboards. Into his home comes Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Walz, deliciously sadistic), nicknamed “The Jew Hunter.” (He pretends to be offended by the handle, but secretly loves it.) What follows is a masterful pas de deux, where the unctuous Landa toys with the poor...