So, after many weeks of faffing about, last night, Husband and I took ourselves down to the Light house cinema to see Inglourious Basterds.
And to properly pay homage to old Quentin, we had quarterpounders with cheese beforehand. Muddafucka.
Actually, that said, there was surprisingly little swearing in this one, although my German is a little rusty, so I may well have missed some. In fact, by the time the lights came on again, I was rather confused as to which language I should be speaking. Fair dues to Master Tarantino, the French dialogue was really very good, only mildly stiff at times, but otherwise perfect, and as far as I could tell, the German was too. In fact, the French were all played by French people, and the Germans by German people. Ingenious. Wonder why no-one else ever thought of that before.
Apart from that, although I can’t honestly say it’s my favourite Tarantino movie ever, it was good. It had all the bits you’d expect from him: the gruesome bits were properly juicy, the violent bits were explosively orgasmic, and he did, of course, manage to slip in some sufficiently sensual shots of ladies’ feet. Of course he did. I didn’t, however, notice any cameo appearance of his Quentinship, if he was there, he was a lot less obvious than he was in the last few films…
The better half of Brangelina wasn’t too bad either, he does love doing that daft redneck accent of his, but his character was sufficiently non-essential so that it didn’t just become Another Brad Pitt Movie™.
In fact the actor who stood out the most for me was Christoph Waltz who plays the main Nazi baddie (aside from Hitler, of course. I mean main as in “seen most often on screen in this film”…) – not because his acting was so great, and it was good – but because he reminded me terribly of the chap who played James Herriot in All Creatures Great and Small, and I couldn’t help but spend half the time imagining him with half an arm up a cow’s arse.
This was considerably distracting.