Quentin Tarantino has been a lot of things in his nearly 20-year career (yes, Reservoir Dogs premiered at Sundance 17.5 years ago, and yes, that makes you old), from enfant terrible to Oscar winner to untouchable fanboy icon, but he’s never seemed to strain so hard to just make a Quentin Tarantino Film as he does as writer/director of Inglourious Basterds. An 160 minute farce of historical revision, Basterds unfold in five chapters, all but one featuring a major act of violence padded with lots of footage of people sitting at tables, talking, in four different languages (five if you count Tarantino Speak, that American English dialect clogged with arcane, movie-sourced and invented slang spoken by Bible-quoting hit men and yellow jumpsuited hit women alike). So far so good, right? But the talking is notably lacking in the spark and rhythm that we’ve come to expect from Tarantino, and with a fair four-fifths of the film given over to character exposition and dull chatter, the violent setpieces feel rushed along, devoid of both the poetics of Kill Bill’s fight sequences and the rock n’ roll efficiency of the rest of his filmography.
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