|Jamie Foxx & Leonardo DiCaprio in Django Unchained|
In recent years, critics who have re-evaluated and upgraded the work of Leone and other filmmakers who worked in the genre have largely abandoned the term in favor of the more staid label “Italian Western.” As a movie addict with a voracious appetite and encyclopedic (but non-judgemental) attitude towards popular culture, Tarantino still uses it. He appreciates it for the way it instantly telegraphs the look and feel of a hallucinatory, overheated world fueled by sadism and blood revenge, with violent rituals enacted by characters in period costume accompanied by the sound of psychedelic electric guitars. Lee, a self-styled provocateur, but one who plays by the establishment’s rules – his idea of a bold gesture is a three-hour, $30 million biopic, sanctified by the onscreen presence of Nelson Mandela, depicting a controversial and divisive figure from recent American history as a black saint – hears the term “spaghetti Western” in reference to a movie with an ex-slave hero, and can’t imagine how that combination can be anything but a dance on Harriet Tubman’s grave.
For Tarantino, style is character. That extends to the identities of his movies themselves. Django Unchained has a hero whose name will remind movie freaks of one of the spaghetti classics – Corbucci’s 1966 Django, starring Franco Nero, who appears here in a cameo so cute it practically wiggles its ears – and an Ennio Morricone mixtape for a soundtrack, and in the opening credits sequence, the camera keeps zooming in and out in a way that will strike a familiar chord in anyone who’s ever stayed up too late sitting in front of the TV, watching Italian actors in cowboy outfits take turns being badly dubbed. He wants to infuse the movie with some of the grittiness and flamboyance of the Leone movies, and also some of the thrill that came from their disreputability (before they had to go and spoil it all by achieving belated critical acclaim). He wanted Death Proof to have some the cheap-thrill appeal of a ‘70s drive-in flick, too, but in both cases, he winds up with a Tarantino movie, which is partly to say, something that would probably have gotten a lot of walk-outs if it had played in the Time Square area back in the day, to patrons looking for something tighter and with fewer soliloquies between the gross-outs.
|Samuel L. Jackson & Kerry Washington|
Tarantino may have taken the howls of outrage that Basterds inspired in some quarters as a challenge, one that necessitated that, having used the Holocaust (and Holocaust and World War II movies) as the pretext for a violent revenge fantasy, he had to use slavery and its legacy the same way. I don’t think his response to feeling challenged is to want to further piss people off, either. I think he wants to win them over, and it’s to his credit that, having defined himself as an entertainer above all else, he keeps raising the bar. His generosity toward the audience is the other side of the love of his own voice, which is why those words like “self-indulgent” and “undisciplined” keep cropping up in his reviews. It’s also part of what keeps him from turning into the Stanley Kubrick of cheap thrills. For at least the last quarter-century of his career, Kubrick seemed to have approached every project as if he’d selected a genre at random and was going to deliver the last word on it, a movie that through sheer force of over-thought-out over-direction would cow the world. Some times this worked out better than other times. The other big difference is, of course, that Tarantino is still deeply involved in the human material on the screen – that is, he loves the bejesus out of actors. After he lost Peter Sellers’ phone number, it seemed to be part of Kubrick’s mission in life to prove that there wasn’t an actor in the world he couldn’t turn into Gary Lockwood. By contrast, Tarantino is the kind of writer-director who you can imagine losing sleep at night from worrying that nobody has ever really made good use of Tom Wopat in a movie. (Wopat is in this one, briefly, as a U. S. Marshall. As it happens, he is quite good.)
|Christophe Waltz as the bounty hunter|
The last thirty minutes of Django Unchained is Tarantino waving his Grindhouse Authenticity card at the camera, and it comes yoked to an onscreen cameo by the director – the sort of thing he’d seemed to have outgrown in recent years – in which he goes so far as to try on an Australian accent; you could treat yourself to a more pleasant listening experience by turning up Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music while dropping golf balls down the garbage disposal. But if Tarantino’s aesthetic credit will always be iffy with a lot of tastemakers, it’s not because his amazing movies go on too long, or grow unstable, or even because the camera only loves him when he’s behind it. It’s because, like De Palma, he’s a serious filmmaker who doesn’t have a solemn bone in his body.