Friend: Hey Matt, fancy coming to see the new Quentin Tarantino film by Quentin Tarantino. Quentin Tarantino did it?

Me: Yes please person who claims to be my friend, I’d love to see the new Quentin Tarantino film by Quentin Tarantino. I hear Quentin Tarantino did it.

Friend: Fantastic! Well what are we waiting for, let’s go and see the new Quentin Tarantino film by Quentin Tarantino, Quentin Tarantino definitely did it.

Me: Oh no wait, Quentin Tarantino, I’m sorry, I thought you said it was made by anyone other than Quentin Tarantino, my mistake. No, no I definitely do not want to see the new Quentin Tarantino film by Quentin Tarantino.

Friend: Why not!?

Matt: Quentin Tarantino did it.

Alas, this wasn’t the conversation I had. The conversation I had was shorter, two lines of script shorter. Unfortunately short scripting was not a problem that arose during the unbearable bastard of an experience that was inglorious basterds. Instead I was subjected to the longest shittest most boring script since the last time Tarantino decided to make a shit film that I was stupid enough to go and see.

Quentin Tarantino is an unspeakable cunt, I hate him all the way from his lumpy face to Uma Thurman’s man feet, but for the purposes of this review I’m going to try to ignore that fact and review this film as if it wasn’t made by that podophilic cunt hammer. Here are my problems:

1. The film shouldn’t have been called “Inglorious Basterds” as the Inglorious Basterds weren’t actually in it. It should instead have been called “Cinema Film” as it was almost entirely about a cinema. I don’t really like the cinema, ideally I like the film I watch there to distract me from the fact I’m in one, so having the film I’m watching in the cinema being about a cinema was, and still is, shit.
2. When people talk, people generally say things. That’s what talking is. The dialog in this film is barely equal in value to quacking or barking. You could have removed 80% of the dialog and it wouldn’t have affected the story at all.
3. If you decide to make a self indulgent narcissistic shit festival of movie, you should make it short. I’m not saying don’t make it, I’m just saying make it short. It’s a fucking compromise is what it is. This film was 18 hours long. At one stage there was a scene that was so unbearably boring and long that I simply had to get away from it, so I went to get more popcorn (which I didn’t want), have a cigarette (I don’t even smoke), talk to some of the people who walked out (of which there were 23) and play a game of monopoly (which I won). On my return, the scene had thankfully almost ended.
4. It had one good character in it. Brad Pitt was good, engaging, played his role well….and was hardly in the film.

I’m not going to list the rest of my problems, as I feel I’ve got my message across. And unlike that foot-jizzing hasbeen I know when to call it a fucking day.

—

Also, said Luc;

I’m sick and tired of Tarentino making his movies look like shit. I’m not talking cinematography, or lighting, but pre-school marketing techniques that a retarded rhesus monkey could follow, even after the experimentation. When your marketing department comes up with, and uses all over the adverts for the film, some wonderful typography, style and posters (that could, if the film hadn’t fucking stunk, been classics, hung on the walls of film school poseurs with no friends), how about you actually fucking use them?

There was a trick missed that even the most dried up of street hooker could have spotted, by not using the fonts and bold red paint strokes in the intro and credits (not that I stayed that long, Usain Bolt wouldn’t have beat me out of the cinema on that night) Tarentino immediately cheapens the experience. There’s a reason we don’t use 19 different fonts in 4 different colours in the credits – it’s called progress – they did it that way in the 70’s because no-one knew better. WE DO NOW YOU FUCKING HALFWIT.

I’m sure Tarentino has some good core ideas, but unless someone tells him to shut the fuck up after the first 30 seconds of his pitch, we’re constantly going to get over-hyped, tedious, drawn-out, self-aggrandising, masterbatory wish-fulfillment crap from a 12 year old with too much money and no-one around him with any fucking spine.

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