“If you ever wanna eat a Sauerkraut sandwich again take your Wiener Schnitzel lickin’ finger and point out on this map what I wanna know.”
Landing the Shore:
We all knew what we wanted this film to be. Very few of the men and women entering that cinema could understand the gravity of the very things that awaited them, but we veterans knew. Few of us would leave with beating hearts.
My own heart stopped several times, (1.) when the free ticket had to be checked for a real one at the box office,
(2.) when I heard the ticket was void for tonight’s show,
(3.) when the money gathered between my wonderful friends was useless for a SOLD OUT SHOW,
(4.) when I thought I had to watch the movie fifteen minutes late in another cinema, and
(5.) when I got smuggled in.
With beads of sweat and the strongest fear of being discovered, I trudged through the film, thinking that I might be taken out. I’d heard that sometimes you can see the flashlight moving on faces in the audience, and sometimes, you don’t see it at all. Would I be next? (It’s a joke, guys, I wasn’t that scared. I swear, I really wasn’t.)
Further details will not be disclosed to protect myself and others from conviction of theatrical felony. I would like to thank my friends for this night, and you all know who you are.
The Battle for France:
Inglourious Basterds was a cinematic event. Never, never ever even think that you can get away with experiencing the movie as well your first time. Never, fucking, ever think that anything can replace the thrill of hearing a collective “yay” or “nay” from dozens of people just like you cheering on your wildest fantasies. There is no, not a single one, none at all, reason for you to think that it is okay to watch this alone, at home. This movie, just like all of Tarantino’s brilliant works in the past, is one that is meant to be experienced in the vain of those films which he takes his material from. If you want a realistic Nazi-killing team of heroes, watch Zwartboek. If you want to see homicidal fucks killing Nazis, watch The Dirty Dozen. If you want to see all of Hell descend upon the Nazi regime, watch Inglourious Basterds. There’s no need to doubt the surreality of this world, because I’ll be goddamned if our world is as fucking entertaining as this.
Aftermath:
On reflection, there were a few scenes, beautiful and delicious as they are, that were heavy in need-to-know-basis vintage film trivia dialogue which lasted very long, just to put our heroes in slightly tighter spots than before. As if they didn’t need to exist. (Forgive me for thinking that it’s odd for Europeans to have seen only any interest in films instead of art or radio in the days when children had to save for months to afford a cheap ticket and nobody thought the art would last longer than another trend. Well, Germans and French take pride in their places in cinema history, so it is fair, just unusual in a WWII movie.) But I love them, and I love what they do for me, which is get rid of a few aces to make the game more interesting while my ears get a verbal lap dance from Nazi-killing lips. The things that could hold the movie back for some have certainly strengthened my love for it, even though it isn’t altogether one of the best movies, nor, obviously, is it perfect. It is one for the books.
“Grat-zee.”
