Tarantino’s
latest offering is, like Kill Bill, a pastiche, albeit a little less
direct. This time, the melting pot contains three things: spaghetti Westerns,
blaxploitation and Deep South plantation drama – which after
all isn’t the Wild West. It is very much a wish fulfilment fantasy, drawing
many comparisons with Inglorious Basterds for being a bit of bloody
catharsis for the great ills of the history of White civilisation, championing
one of America
Django
is a slave given the opportunity to escape his cruel fate by the grace of a
white man. Well, that’s how some critics are spinning things, but let’s be fair
– this isn’t a story that could be told about the era without that level of
facilitation. This white man is another outsider – a German immigrant, very
possibly but by no means certainly a German Jew (who can after all be
nationalistic and like the same things as Wagner did), who masquerades as a
dentist but in actuality makes his living as a bounty hunter. He needs Django
because Django can identify some marks for him. So good at it does Django prove
himself that they partner up for a longer term, and the charismatic German is
sufficiently moved by Django’s search for his wife (named after Brunnhilde) to
offer to help him. Unfortunately, she is now the property of one of the most
merciless slave-owners in the South.
Much
of this works brilliantly. The dehumanized black man gets to rise up to kill
the abusive slavers if they have a price on their heads – though one harrowing
scene at a farm gives shades of moral grey. The good doctor’s way of doing
things is very flamboyant, letting people think he is simply a deranged
murderer before he reveals the truth. There’s also a brilliant comedic scene
where a proto-Klan argue about the difficulty of seeing out of their white
hoods. It’s all very comic book, even slapdash. There’s almost a wilful lack of
attention to details and continuity – witness the amount of beer going up and
down in the glasses, or bullets making a clinking sound as they land in snow.
That doesn’t even seem to be the right year for the Civil War. But this is
self-conscious filmmaking, constantly drawing attention to itself. Look at
these faded stars, given the Tarantino treatment. Listen to this original
Morricone composition, with all that spaghetti Western heritage. Yes, if I want
to, I will just slap words on the screen for exposition, and have a 70s-style
theme song.
It’s
not a well-plotted piece, it makes a point of its unoriginality, and really it
should have ended at its false end. If the intended message was that you can
save a whole lot of bloodshed and misery if you swallow your pride and admit
you’ve lost when you’ve lost, as the good doctor could not, that got a bit
lost. As soon as Django killed the Australians who could have helped him
(including a pot-bellied Tarantino doing a rather odd accent and drawing
attention to himself, without a director to tell him to do it better), it
became clear that this wasn’t about a good moral message and Django was no good
guy: to get his way, he would slaughter everyone, including one defenceless
woman who had done nothing but been born to the same mother as the bad guy and,
I suppose, failed to totally overhaul the entire social order of her day, who
he could easily have let go. The puddle of blood grows huge as Django’s revenge
is completed, and while Tarantino is of course known for his violence, I missed
the meaningful blood and suffering of Reservoir Dogs.
But
for all it was imperfect, it was of course fun, as mediocre comic books are
fun, and there were undeniably fantastic performances. Django himself will win
no Oscars, but Christoph Waltz’s Doctor Schultz is in with a shot, and Samuel
L. Jackson as an Uncle Ruckus type with a real sharp edge behind the scenes was
fantastically-played. Much to praise, then, but not a whole lot to keep
praising after the layers have been peeled back, very possibly in some horrific
torture scene.
A
question that persists: if the workers know it’s an act, and the massa
