Django Unchained *****

Why did I like Django Unchained so much? It engaged me, gave me dreams, had such a unique vision that I cannot forget it. The marks of genius, flawed or disturbed, were all over it. It had moments of perfection: the mythology, the filming, the music, the costumes, the acting: the purpose came together and it was perfect. I am not even sure how I judge which scenes were perfect. Christoph Waltz gently preparing Kerry Washington to see Django after she knew that he could not be alive, was simple, quiet, and made me cringe--so many ways for the reunion to be tragic. There was no fanfare, no one said: this is an important scene! watch carefully! it will move the film forward!  In fact, I wasn't sure that it would be a good thing for them to be reunited. At that point, all we had was Django's need to find her. We had no idea if she loved him at the same depth. And by that time in the film, it had been made clear that just as Django had become a killer on the strength of what had happened to him as a slave, Hildy could just as well have become an unfeeling comfort girl. How else would she survive, I found myself asking. Once the audience met Calvin Candie, all bets were off. I felt sick to my stomach after one scene with him. How would it feel to live in his house as a slave and by his rules? (still wondering why The Academy can't figure out Leo's genius). I am guessing for most girls, the faster you became numb the longer you would live. So, no feeling.

But of course, Kerry Washington does not go numb, she just gets more beautiful with each insult to her body and her psyche. And this is my complaint with Django Unchained: what a ridiculous premise! Slave rescued by German bounty hunter (there were so many of those traversing the Western landscape in the 19th c America), makes a living killing white folks and learns to read all in the noble pursuit of rescuing his wife from the clutches of the most ridiculously insane slaver ever portrayed on the screen. I think I feel equal parts of admiration for the craft AND anger at Tarantino's vision, that the solution to lingering shame over man's inhumanity to man is to ratchet up man's inhumanity to man into a bloodbath of revenge--not vengeance--so that I was left wanting to celebrate Django's triumph but also feeling sick to my stomach as he seemed to descend into the same sticky bloody bath as Calvin Candie. And juxtaposing hyperbolically written stock characters (Candie) with restrained dynamic characters ( Schultz) just confused even the most devoted audience (me). Which tone am I to register? I'm still not sure.

 I felt the same way at the end of Inglorious Basterds. How am I supposed to cheer for the destruction of all the Nazis in the movie theatre when it becomes obvious that the agent of their destruction has been driven mad by her desire for revenge? What is there to admire there? Nothing. But the fact remains, these last two films of Tarantino's are two of my favorite movies of all time. They achieve status as works of art, no doubt. But the talented white filmmaker taking on the ugly truth of human nature on behalf of those who cannot and then crossing the line--from justice to retribution--just smacks of the same aspects of humanity that got us into the mess in the first place. Maybe Tarantino got lost in the game of making the moving picture instead of wielding his considerable creative power to lift us all up. Someone always has to lose.