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There’s a lot to love about Inglourious Basterds, which makes its shortcomings all the more frustrating. Going all the way back to Reservoir Dogs I’ve said that Tarantino is a better director than a writer, and Inglourious Basterds is further proof. His direction is confident, the production is beautiful, and unlike most modern directors, Tarantino can construct a cinematic set piece in the classic tradition.

In addition, Tarantino elicits terrific performances from most of his actors. The film features a simply outstanding performance by Christoph Waltz as Colonel Hans Landa, one of the most villainous Nazis to grace the silver screen in years. Kudos also go to Diane Kruger, Mélanie Laurent, Til Schweiger… have you noticed yet who’s missing from this list?

Quite honestly, I’m not sure what Brad Pitt is doing in this movie other than to get asses in the seats. His character is almost inconsequential to the plot, and his performance is so arch it sticks out like a sore thumb. Indeed, the “Basterds” comprise such a small part of the film that in retrospect the advertising was largely deceiving. Far from being a Dirty Dozen-type action film, Inglourious Basterds is primarily a suspense film, borrowing liberally from Paul Verhoeven’s 2006 film Black Book. In fact, I’m surprised no critics have noticed the similarities.

However, Black Book’s screenplay was tight as a drum - whereas Inglourious Basterds meanders from setpiece to setpiece, and as the film enters the third act it blithely starts to abandon all narrative logic. The plan The Basterds come up with to foil the Nazis is so foolhardy one simply can’t believe they’d attempt it. Would Mélanie Laurent’s projectionist / implied boyfriend really agree to incinerate himself out of love for her? Would a character as intelligent and crafty as Landa place himself in such danger? For a screenplay Tarantino supposedly worked on for ten years, the gaps in logic are numerous. And as the film slowly abandons its internal logic, it becomes increasingly irreverent, as if to say, “It’s all just a joke anyway, so who cares?”

Also, Tarantino’s needle drops - culled from various Ennio Morricone scores, Jacques Loussier’s score to Dark Of The Sun, and even a David Bowie song from Cat People, to name a few - break the tone of the film at every turn. If the aforementioned list sounds like a conflicting mishmash of styles from different eras, imagine how it sounds in the film. Hey Quentin… Morricone is still alive and working, y’know. How about you hire him? Create some music tailored to your film that doesn’t refer to a half-dozen other films?

One of the things I admire about Black Book is that it updated and reinvigorated the WWII thriller with a straight face. Perhaps the difference between it and Inglourious Basterds can be attributed to the generation gap between their respective directors. Verhoeven is in his sixties, and experienced the war firsthand as a child. Tarantino is some twenty years younger, and is part of a generation that prides itself on being self-conscious and ironic. I’m even younger than Tarantino, but for some strange reason my sensibilities are more in line with Verhoeven. I’m not interested in a cinematic post-mortem on the WWII genre - I want to see it revitalized.