Inglourious Basterds

Quentin Tarantino is a cocky son of a bitch.

Inglourious Basterds is better for it. Whatever conventions movie audiences have become accustomed to, Tarantino has no problem turning them on their heads, warping them to suit his needs, or simply abandoning them altogether; he uses any cinematic device he pleases, whenever he pleases, to fill his narrative with a richness of presentation that to my knowledge is unparalleled. The result is at times comic, at times darkly disturbing, and — impressively — oftentimes both. Tarantino's previous films are amalgamations in similar fashion, of course, but Inglourious Basterds does it better. The pervasive violence and eerily plausible dialogue we've come to expect are rolled into a scope and stylistic maturity that thoroughly transcend the cult classic. (And the violence here does not cross into indulgence, as it sometimes has tended to with Tarantino.) (Also, I in no way mean to denigrate cult classics; this is just a horse of a different color.)

As for the cast, Brad Pitt may put bodies in the seats, but the star of this film is Christoph Waltz. I have never felt tension build so steadily and so insidiously as when Colonel Hans Landa permeates a scene. (Tarantino's writing provides the fodder, yes, but man does Waltz sell it.) The international troupe, hailing from the U.S., Germany, Austria, France, brings things off masterfully, offering a superb authenticity to this irreverent, genre-bending tale.

With characteristic musical and cinematographic excellence, Inglourious Basterds is a masterpiece. Tarantino says so right there in the movie. Cocky? Absolutely. But rightfully so. He probably has just released this year's best picture.