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O Death, Where is Thy Sting?
I think of myself as a pacifist.
Yeah, sure. So, how to explain my reaction to “Inglorious Basterds,” director Quentin Tarantino’s intentionally misspelled film?
I didn’t break into applause at the end as many in the audience did, but I was silently cheering this ultimate revenge-fantasy film even as I winced at the extremely violent treatment of Nazis at the hands of the American G.I. killers.
Maybe I can blame my tolerance on the hilarious portrayal by Brad Pitt of the unit’s Tennessean commanding officer, who actually made the scalping and carving of Nazi soldiers seem, well, amusing. Or the fact that Tarantino’s work is so bloody that by the end one is pretty benumbed.
It is probably closer to the truth that the legendary director has tapped into that part of me (and that part in a lot of other people, apparently) that finds solace for some atrocities only in like atrocities. That Biblical “eye for an eye” business caught on–and has hung on–for a reason, I guess.