In Quentin Tarantino’s “Inglourious Basterds”—an unreasonable jest about the Second World War—Joseph Goebbels commissions a publicity combat film and assembles the Nazi leaders in occupied Paris, in 1944, for its première at a engaging Art Deco theatre. As the big night approaches, groups of European silver screen people and Jewish American soldiers plan to use the occasion to eliminate the Nazi power and bring an end to the Third Reich. (Some plan to set fire to the coliseum, others to blow it up.) The anti-Nazi cinemaphiles comprehend the female theatre owner; her louring lover and projectionist; a leading German actress who spies for the British; and, of all people, a critic—an English boffin on German cinema who attempts to outmoded himself off as an S.S. officer. The Americans are themselves right out of the movies: the Inglourious Basterds, as they are known, are a accommodating of Jewish Dirty Dozen, led by a Gentile, Lieutenant Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt), a uncivil, jawjutting tough guy from Tennessee (which is where Tarantino is from). In outline, Tarantino has gone past his predictable practice of decorating his movies with homages to others. This term, he has pulled the film-archive door turn off behind him—there’s hardly a flash of light indicating that the clique exists outside the cinema except as the foundation of a nutbrain fable.

Since 1941, the Basterds have been ruinous German soldiers in occupied France, sometimes by beating them with a baseball bat. Then they scalp them (the commentary: Raine has Native American blood). The lieutenant also carves swastikas into Nazi foreheads. Whether the Basterds are Tarantino’s fantasy of an all-American killing team or his parody of one is impoverished to know. Very little in “Basterds” is meant to be infatuated straight, but the movie isn’t quite farce, either. It’s lodged in an uneasy nowheresville between counterfactual pop wish fulfillment and trashy exploitation, between in seventh heaven nonsense and cinema scholasticism. In the mid-point of this crazy narrative, Tarantino pauses to pay his respects, like an unctuous cover professor, to the immortals of German cinema. The marked G. W. Pabst! Emil Jannings! (They are brought to Paris for the première.) The cinema, it seems, is both virtuous and heroic; it creates great art, and it will end the war. The fire is started by the ardent of old nitrate-based movies behind the separate.

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