Before Inglorious Basterds began, the trailer for Rob Zombie’s upcoming Halloween 2 played.  As a kid, I was a huge fan of horror films, largely due to my brother’s study of makeup effects.  I loved the horror of the 80s, then horror went away for a decade or so.  The Ring and Saw began a rebirth of the genre, and a revolution of viewer expectations.  Modern editing techniques and lax ratings rules at the MPAA allowed things to make it to audiences that once would have been chopped.  Since then, horror has become what many refer to as “torture porn.”  Michael Myers is no longer an invincible scary guy one can dismiss as unrealistic.  His murders in the remakes are much more real, much more graphic; these aren’t the stylized jump-out-and-scare-you antics of the 80s...

But I digress.  The point is, when the Halloween 2 trailer showed, I - a former lover of the horror genre - found myself wincing, turning my head and wondering “who wants to see that?  It’s so violent!” 

And then Inglorious Basterds began, and I (and an audience of other laughing people varying in age, sex and race unlikely to make it out to see Halloween 2) proceeded to take leisure in the scalping, mutilation-by-knife, and beating-to-death-by-bat of Nazi soldiers.  This violence was not unlike that in Rob Zombie’s first Halloween remake; it was brutal and real, and showed the knife entering, recorded the sounds of pain and grunting and sloshing as the men die.  But culturally, these sounds weren’t as disturbing to me.  For these aren’t innocent teens being slaughtered by some madman.  They are Nazi soldiers - perhaps the most reviled of human beings historically - and this violence is justice.

Justice is the key word here, for all Inglorious Basterds is (much as the film in its climax) is a tale of Jewish vengeance.  And this vengeance, just as the cruelty of the Nazis themselves, is unrelenting and violent.  Tarantino re-writes history for the victim, and we critics of torture porn sit smiling, popping kernels into our mouths and going home satisfied.  Quentin’s justice is so bloodily lovely, so poetic.

Tarantino delivers his usual dose of style, but is refreshingly innovative.  He doesn’t just serve up the same style, but fits this 1940s France into his style - merges the two with an elegance reminiscent of the filmmaking of that era.  His camerawork is interesting, his sound design present in a way more attuned to life than a real ear, his casting of virtual no-names downright brilliant.  And his script, which makes 2 1/2 hours feel like an hour forty, provides its usual twists and turns that keep an audience truly guessing.  Death is doled out without ceremony to the most central of characters, and no one - not even the most experienced screenwriter - can guess what will come next.

Bravo to all involved.  Tarantino, once again, proves that he is one of the most capable filmmakers of our time.