I am of the opinion that Quentin Tarantino is one of the greatest filmmakers of this generation. In Inglorious Basterds, he demonstrates, once again, that he is among the finest artists the medium has ever known.

Inglorious Basterds is a bombastic, lurid war story, following Lt. Aldo Raine’s (Brad Pitt) Basterds, Shosanna (Melanie Laurent), and Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz) in their explosive attempt at historical revisionism.  It is among the most genuinely entertaining movies I have seen in a long, long time.

Tarantino builds his world out of the iconography of film. He paints a lush portrait of WWII, not as it was, but as a Spaghetti Western, a refreshing departure at a point in cinematic history when the runtime of WWII films has far surpassed the length of the war. He peoples the war-ravaged French countryside with characters so large, so fantastic that they border on the absurd, yet he manages to maintain their human dimension. It is a world that, though terrifying, livid, and manic, I would very much like to visit one day.

The writing is impeccable. The film is a series of Mexican Standoffs, each replete with loquacious gusto and stupendous tension. Characters speak in ways that we can only dream. Even unimportant lines articulate fundamental truths in ways to which other writers aspire. In this ludicrous dreamscape, Tarantino manages to weave meaning out of fire, violence, and gore. This is a film about film and its extraordinary power to spark evolution.

I feel like it would be unfair of me to discuss the climax at this time. Do, however, let me note that I loved it. It is daring and fascinating. We will have to discuss this scene at a later date. For now, I can only recommend that you find the nearest cinema and immerse yourself in the Basterd’s feverish revelry. If you saw it at midnight, or earlier today, I recommend that you return to the theatre. As Mr. Ebert noted, “It’s not enough to see [it] once.”