Inglourious Basterds (2009)

I have to admit, I was ready to give up on Quentin Tarantino. I'm not a fan of capital-d Directors, by and large, because I think they tend to be self-indulgent and/or pretentious. Tarantino is certainly no exception, especially when it comes to indulgence. The last few films I've seen from him—Four Rooms, Jackie Brown, and certainly Kill Bill—have been more than I could take. I find myself watching them thinking, "Man, this guy is full of himself." Which can be a bit distracting if you're actually interested in, you know, watching the movie. So I wasn't even going to bother seeing Inglourious Basterds, but somehow I heard enough good things to end up putting it on my list. Before I sat down to watch it, though, I was prepared for it to be the last Tarantino film I ever bothered with.

I was pleasantly surprised. This film represents most of what I like about QT, and not much of what I don't. He has always had a wonderful way of drawing out a scene, pulling the suspense tight but not letting it break. The opening scene in the cabin was spectacular, and honestly that set me up to enjoy the film from the start. This particular talent is also where he can be a bit indulgent—the tediously long introduction of Eli Roth's otherwise insignificant character, for example. But for the most part, he keeps it well in check, and most of the suspense has a worthy payoff.

Tarantino's immense knowledge of film convention is another talent which can become an indulgence. He loves to make jokes that only film geeks will understand, and rarely do ten full minutes pass without an homage of some kind. Fair enough, as long as it doesn't intrude on  the film. A few times here, though, he does manage to use that level of understanding to actually improve the story. Parallel plot lines that we expect to collide actually end up merging nicely. Characters are introduced and set up as important, only to be abruptly dispensed with. You end up with very little confidence as to who will survive to see the end of the film, and that's a good thing.

So yes, I enjoyed the film. It was well acted, well directed, and quite a bit of fun to watch. I wouldn't have minded seeing it on the big screen, actually, and next time around I might just give QT another chance. We'll see.

Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story (2005)

With a movie like this, you either go along for the ride, or you don't. I did. When Steve Coogan teams up with Michael Winterbottom and Rob Brydon, I'm bound to. And while the humor with this group usually has a lot of ups & downs, I didn't ever feel bored during Tristram Shandy. Coogan plays himself playing himself quite well, and his self-deprecation is pitch-perfect.

All the meta levels of the film work quite well. It was particularly fun watching the adult Tristram Shandy introduce, and then critique, the actor playing his childhood self. I also appreciated the various transitions where people slip in and out of character, or where the crew step in and out. That was all handled really well, and made it a lot of fun. In the last half, though, as the film gets more and more tied to the off-screen stuff, it loses some of its vigor.

It was a fun film, but felt a bit slight. When it was all over, I had a lesser version of the same feeling I usually get from PoMo stuff, which is basically the resounding question "Why?" It's easier to find the purpose and meaning behind a Judd Apatow movie, I think, than behind so many of the ironically detached exercises that PostModernists love to love. Still, as I said, that reaction was muted with this movie. Mostly because I did find it so funny, and I think that is mostly down to Coogan's performance.

Elizabethtown (2005)

If I had to describe this movie in one word, that word would be: Bad. Fortunately, I don’t have to, so I can admit that there are some good parts. I can finally see what people like about Cameron Crowe, I think. The best way I can put it is that there’s something comfortable about his movies. You feel yourself just settling into them. With this one I did, anyway.

But I kept getting taken back out of it, in really jarring ways. Kirsten Dunst was fucking horrible in this movie, and I don’t blame her. That was one of the worst-written, most predictable roles ever. It was Hollywood’s version of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. In every detail, right down to the way she leans in at just the right moment in that last scene (when he finds her at the Farmer’s Market). And the thing is, that role is really typical of the movie as a whole. It was just so unbearably predictable.

Except that with most predictable movies, at least you know what’s coming next. I know that sounds contradictory, but I mean it. This movie was basically a pastiche of really predictable characters and situations—very poorly executed, I might add—interspersed with these unbelievable digressions out into nowhere. The train really went off the rails at the wake. Everything about that was just, wow, just really shockingly bad. [I might add, as a bit of an aside, that Crowe’s characters are really unlikeable. Could they possibly be any more self-obsessed? And the more central the character, the worse they are.] OK: What. The Hell. Were all those people laughing and clapping for when Susan Sarandon was on stage? Was I hallucinating, or did she finish off with a tap-dance number (and then, of course, to truly sell the cliché, did she look at the huge picture of Mitch and mouth the words, “I love you”)? Was that a stand-up–comedy routine she was doing? I must have passed out at some point, because I missed the part where that was in any way relevant to the man they were all there to grieve.

I’m being serious, by the way—I think I passed out at some point. This movie was like a twelve-pound sledge to the frontal lobe. I can barely see straight. The only saving grace, I guess, was that after the wake the movie officially transcended into So-Bad-It’s-Good status. Or at least So-Bad-It’s-Hilarious.

Wow. Just wow wow wow. A lot of people took a lot of drugs to make this movie happen, obviously. And just as with any drug-induced fiasco, I don’t know whether to thank them for the laughs, or just try to move on with my life and pretend the whole sordid thing never even happened. I think I can feel myself starting to repress it, even now.