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Shareby Dennis Lim
Slate (20 August 2009)
“Quentin Tarantino concludes his seventh feature, the Nazi-bludgeoning fantasy Inglourious Basterds, with a grisly flourish and a self-satisfied review. Having performed one of his signature mutilations, a character peers down at his handiwork and into the camera and declares: “This might just be my masterpiece.” This is typical Tarantino bluster, in keeping with the image of the bratty wunderkind that he worked hard to cultivate and that, even at 46, he refuses to outgrow. But as the rare filmmaker who’s also an avid reader of film reviews, he also surely knows that it’s been a while since the critical establishment thought of him as a maker of masterpieces.”
