Oh The Gory Of 'Basterds'

It isn't hard to believe. It isn't hard to believe that without a briefcases full of golden glimmering light, psychedelic surf dances to Chuck Berry, matching suits and color coded nicknames that Quentin Tarentino has brutally convinced his audience that a world within a well documented and historically painful world, is able to exist. And he didn't need Samuel L. Jackson to do it. No, he went out and got Brad Pitt to do it, yet Inglorious Basterds is far from the Oscar nominated stud muffin's ultimate curtain call. And what Tarentino world would there be without some mutilation or graphic display of dissection? Without giving too much away, keep your eyes and ears (at least one of them, right?) a little more open this time. It's highly unlikely that the film will graze over your head. All of this I'm sure isn't hard to believe.

From the opening shot of French country side to the violent formulaic and trademark climax of his films, the dialogue of Tarentino's 'Basterds' weaves in and out of subtly magnetic European dialect, but is as fluid, captivating and comprehensive as Arianna Huffington. Christoph Waltz as the wicked Landa (Jew Hunter) too is frighteningly irresistible. You really can't afford to take your eyes off him or you will fall victim to his nefarious German intellect. He's truly good at what he does as he so simply puts it. In his case, politics don't necessarily push his character to obsessively sniff out and pursue any scent of suspicion, but pride. Waltz is as ruthless and persistent as a blood thirsty hound. He wants it all and will never be defeated, even if that does mean the Evil Chaplin (alright, I gave him a lame nickname) burns in hell. Gasps and sighs of relief make their way around the theater when any of his scenes come to a gratifying halt. And when they do, what better face to transition from a thin, sickly paled Nazi to Brad Pitt straight off the mountains of Tennessee. Trust me, the accent grows on you.