THE INGLORIOUS BASTARDS

d. Enzo G. Castellari (1978)

It's 1944 in France, and a group of rascally GIs are on their way to be court martialled. They're a mismatched bunch, consisting of a compulsive thief who's been in the brig so long he has shoulder length hair; a black soldier who kills racists; a racist; a deserter with PTSD, and a pilot who kept stealing planes in order to visit his girlfriend in London. They're not cowards, just criminals, non-conformists and individualists unsuited to the rigours of military life. The black soldier is played by Fred Williamson, so self-possessed that he hasn't even bothered to shave of his 70s moustache and sideboard combo. 

When their convoy is attacked by a Messerschmitt, they effect an escape, heading for neutral Switzerland and freedom. There's a war going on, however, and, being the basically decent blokes they are (and angling for pardons) they can't help but get involved, redeeming their accidental killing of some crack American troops by taking their place on a top secret life or death mission.

In a barely fathomable breach of convention, the racist not only survives the film but gets the girl. That keeps me awake at night. 

Extensive matte and model work and lots of authentic surplus equipment (presumably left behind 35 years before) make the war look much bigger than it is, as does repeating the best explosions and hails of bullets three or four times. Despite all the death, however, it's essentially quite a bloodless and lightweight film, and Williamson mugs and plays it for laughs whenever he can.

The best actor in it is Bo Svenson, a tall, blond Swedish guy who had been a Marine and a Judo champion before briefly becoming a leading man in action films, later settling into a long career in supporting roles. He looks the part, and is perhaps the only one of the cast to take it seriously. 

The film ends with a train crashing into a railway station, a sequence that is so clearly done with models that it resembles the apocalyptic finale of an unbroadcast episode of Thomas the Tank Engine.

Quentin Tarantino would later nick the title, of course, and make an unsatisfactory and irritating film with it. He's a director who frustrates me enormously, as his films should be brilliant by virtue of being fully resourced exploitation movies without the boring bits and shoddy performances. Instead, they are confused, flabby, self-indulgent and, yep, badly acted. In cinematic terms, he's a director who knows the cost of everything and the value of nothing.