The title of this blog posts alludes to one of the lesser known J. K. Rowling volumes… Seriously though, I had the opportunity to see both Harry Potter And The Half-Blood Prince and and Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds this week. We’ll get to the much-celebrated Basterds in a moment, but first we – in the spirit of Professor McGonagall – ask, “What’s the matter Harry?”
[ad#adsense250]Voldemort Schmoldermort. That is the least of Harry’s and Ron’s and Hermione’s problems. This is puberty, not quite as I remember it. As if there hadn’t already been enough of an awkward love triangle between Harry-Hermione-Ron in previous installments of the franchise, now they have to contend with other people eagerly fighting for their affections. This kind of thing is difficult enough on The Jerry Springer Show, but in the world of Hogwarts spells make everything much more problematic. But truthfully watching the awkward romantic adventures and misadventures of the gang is quite adorable.
I should probably tell you that I’ve not read a single book in the Potter series, though I couldn’t help but think the whole function of the movie was just to faciliate one plot point. You know, that part of the tale where the important character dies. Yes, that character. A lot of effort goes into filling in the Voldemort backstory (his former life as Tom Riddle) but this didn’t particularly interest me. Dumbledore puts Harry to work to discover something it later seems Dumbledore always knew (or at least suspected), and in parts of the movie Dumbledore seems so far removed from the Dumbledore we knew and loved earlier. He seems whimisical, almost a parody of his former self. He confesses to loving knitting, and makes enquiries about Potter’s love life. And there were elements of the movie that became irritatingly familiar. It seems you can’t have a scene with Dumbledore in it unless he opens with, “You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you here…” Similarly at the end of each film Harry declares boldly that he must go off into the wilderness and battle the Dark Lord alone, and Hermione and Ron roll their eyes and tell dear Harry that that won’t be happening. All in all an enjoyable form of escapism.
Inglourious Basterds left me feeling… well I don’t know what it left me feeling. I wanted to lose myself in this film in the same way I lost myself in Harry Potter. But it just isn’t possible. Every thirty seconds Tarantino does something to remind you that you’re watching a movie. I realise this is what Tarantino is known for and celebrated for. But it was all a bit too clever for me. It is such a bastardised popular culture romp. The music has no sense of time or place. Important footnotes to the story are provided by Samuel L. Jackson voice overs. Lines and captions are attached to notable Nazi figures in scenes. At one point a plate of cream gets its own gratituous close up. Yes, the cream is thick and rich. Yes, there is a connection between the two characters in the scene and French dairy farmers. But the whole thing is laboured and perplexing and completely distracted me from an otherwise emotionally-charged moment in the film.
The story itself is superb. A fable certainly, but an engrossing one at that. The performances are brilliant. I particularly want to make mention of Mélanie Laurent, who plays Shosanna, the feisty Jewish cinema owner, and Christoph Waltz, who provides us with an oddly charismatic ‘Jew Hunter’ in the form of Colonel Hans Landa. At times you recoil in horror, at times you laugh (Brad Pitt’s “Italian” accent is a comedic device in and of itself), and at times you celebrate. And this left me feeling really quite uncomfortable. I would look around and see my fellow movie-goers reacting in horror to an act of German violence, and then applauding acts of violence towards Germans. (But then life imitates art; we watch violent acts on the big screen, then we watch Tarantino’s characters watch violent acts on Shosanna’s big screen. And they applaud and squirm at different places too. It’s quite surreal.) Aren’t we beyond that? Isn’t all violence abhorrent? Or have I been riding Cat Steven’s Peace Train too long? Wasn’t American-sponsored propaganda as vile as German-sponsored propaganda?
But that was Monday. I wasn’t angry on Monday. I was, however, angry on Tuesday. I was furious truth be told. And by this point I wondered if Tarantino’s violent reimagining of history didn’t serve some purpose. Infact it reminded me of the way after being bullied in high school I would come home and take my frustrations out on the characters in the shoot ‘em up game Doom II. At worst, simulated violence has to be better than real violence. Will this movie provide catharsis for anyone who lived through World War II? Frankly I have no idea… but it was thought-provoking nonetheless.
