Years ago when I lived in Southern California I used to take my Mom to the movies on Sundays. We both loved attending a matinee and of course (you know Frankie), grabbing a bite afterwards.
My Mom had two requirements about going to the movies:
1. The movies theater had to have FRESH popcorn with REAL butter.
2. We must arrive EARLY (45-60 minutes prior to showtime) to be FIRST in line to get the coveted seats in the back row. [If my Mom could have arranged it, she would have preferred to arrive at the airport the day BEFORE her flight departed. I think this earliness trait was part fear of missing out on something and part enjoying people watching.]
As far as movie preferences go, I’m the Emma type. My Mom was the Dirty Dozen type. She loved Silence of the Lambs. I hated it. I loved Prince of Tides. My Mom “cannot abide Barbra Streisand.” We both loved Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Not for Kevin Costner. But for Alan Rickman as the Sheriff of Nottingham. How terrific was he in that role?! Best Line: “Do you mind, Locksley?”(You have to see the movie for the context.)
In choosing our Sunday afternoon movies, it was mostly a factor at what was playing at the movie theaters by South Coast Plaza (which fulfilled the popcorn requirement). One fall afternoon we chose Reservoir Dogs. I had heard about the movie. Sounded right up my Mom’s alley. I told her it was a gory crime drama with six guys and one of them gets his ear chopped off. My Mom’s reply: “Perfect!”
At the ticket selling booth, we were the only people there, being so darn early. I stepped up to the window, my Mom next to me.
“Two tickets to Reservoir Dogs, please,” I said.
The young man behind the glass eyed us. He hesitated, didn’t take my money.
“I have to warn you. This movie is very violent.”
“That’s OK,” I said.
“Are you sure?” the ticket man pleaded. “You probably won’t like it.”
“That’s OK,” I said again. I shoved my money under the slot.
“How about The River Runs Through It?”
My Mom took matters into her own hands. She stepped up to the window and shook her finger at the ticket man.
“Listen, Sonny,” she said. “I am well aware of the violence. And let me tell you something. The bloodier the better!”
Then she gave a little harrumph.
“Two tickets, please,” I said.
Of course my Mom loved the movie—Mr. White in particular. It wasn’t my cup of tea—yes the violence and language got to me. But I did like the music.
I also took my Mom to see Pulp Fiction—another fantastic movie in her opinion. I hid my eyes a lot. It was weirder and more disturbing than RD. That was the last of Quentin Tarantino for me.
As a director, QT is out there. But I’ve heard him many times in interviews and he comes across as intelligent and a nice “non-pompous ego-in-check not-so-Hollywood” guy. I also enjoyed his stint as a guest judge on American Idol. He knows music.
After I heard his interview about Inglourious Basterds, a WWII story, on Fresh Air with Terry Gross, I decided to give it a try. I watched it last night. I was pleasantly surprised.
SPOILER ALERT:
IB was clever and entertaining—a fictionalized tale about the demise of Heir Hitler and Gang. I liked QT’s version better than history’s account—his being the Nazi Hierarchy and their pals are engulfed in a ball of flames at a movie theater.
The movie has been called a revenge fantasy (Jews killing Nazis for a change). I think it’s a dark comedy (or a comic tragedy?) with funny dialogue. With the exception of the scalping scenes, head carvings, and baseball bat bashing parts, (I had to hide my head), the violence seemed more stylistic than menacing. The plot advances with narration and alternating story lines. There is never a dull moment or lag in the action.
QT uses the soundtrack to enhance the drama. It’s eclectic and terrific, especially the Ennio Morricone compositions, like “The Verdict,” which sounds like a cross between a Spaghetti Western tune and a Beethoven piano concerto.
The acting is superb by so many members of the cast. Brad Pitt, as “Apache Aldo”/Lt. Raine, is a cross between a southern-fried John Wayne and Chad (the shorts-wearing gym instructor he played in Burn After Reading).
But the actor who literally steals the show in every scene is Cristoph Waltz, who plays a Nazi Jew hunter named Col. Hans Lada. Holy cow what a performance. I can’t recall a better villain—humorous yet horrifying at the same time. The scene where he laughs at Bridget von Hammersmark about her mountain climbing accident is priceless. But even that is topped by the scene where he negotiates his surrender. An Oscar is headed his way.
My biggest complaint was the over use of subtitles. I hate reading dialogue, especially sentences that zipped by so fast even a speed reader couldn’t catch them. The text was in yellow and when the words appeared over a light colored background (like a white tablecloth) you couldn’t read them at all. Consequently you missed what was said, detracting from the overall experience.
Quentin Tarantino's new Oscar-nominated film
But all in all, when Inglourious Basterds ended I said to Hubby Man, “I liked it.
But Helen would have LOVED it.”
