I was sitting in the theater, waiting anxiously to see Quentin Tarantino’s brand spanking new film “Inglourious Basterds.” Honestly, how one could possibly intend to miss it was beyond me; it’s Tarantino’s take on the war genre, how could you not see it? Then the trailers started playing, one of which was for “Restricted Audiences Only” (that was pretty cool), and all the while I was hyping myself up for what would truly be the stuff cinematic memories were made of/ or maybe I was trying to silence the nagging voice in the back of my head that worried about how good this film was really going to be.

After the film, the credits rolled, the lights came on, and I sat there, just sat there, trying to wrap my head around what the fruit-God bless replacement words-just happened. It was everything I had already seen (and enjoyed) before: violence, explosions, witty and quotable dialogue, and Brad Pitt in the role of a cocksure tough guy. So why did I feel so broken after the experience? After much soul searching, I think I found the answer: It was a Tarantino film.

Now when I say that, I don’t mean a movie directed by Tarantino. I mean a movie that tries to be like a movie directed by Tarantino. I realized, in that moment, that Tarantino is obviously incapable of directing a movie in any way other than the now patented “Tarantino style.” In that regard, “Inglourious Basterds” delivered in spades. Everything, from the completely unnecessary change in fonts during the opening credits to the random exposition scenes narrated by Samuel L. Jackson, served to ensure that the film was jam-packed with obscure references to several bajillion foreign, or simply older, films that Tarantino has had the pleasure of seeing, while the audience has not.

When Tarantino decides to make a movie, he’s going to do it his way. But the problem is that his way is the same for every movie he does. You watch his movies and begin to know what’s going to happen simply from experience. What happens when things go wrong? The main characters) will inevitably take matters into their own hands, which will involve killing everyone who stands in their way. For every possible conflict, repeat the above solution, and you start to get the idea.

So with nothing new under the sun, Tarantino has had to push it in order to continue giving audiences something they allegedly haven’t seen before. That basically means more blood, more explosions, and an even more random yet tasteful mix of music, both classic and contemporary, for us to appreciate. And if that weren’t enough, when you didn’t think he could Tarantino it any more than he already has, he decides to take it even further: “Hey, I’m Quentin Tarantino, and I’m making a WWII movie; Eff it, I’m gonna do it my way! I’m going to change the freaking course of history and make it conform to my Tarantino vision: blood, guts, guns, cuts, knives, lives, wives, nuns, sluts!”

Of course, if anyone else had directed “Basterds”, they probably would have been accused of ripping off the aforementioned Tarantino Style. But I’m starting to feel that that would be preferable to watching the man who defined the word innovative get more and more extreme in his attempt to personalize and patent his unique modus operandi until it becomes a stylized shadow of the originality that made him great in the first place.

Now, having said all that, go see the movie, if for no other reason than to see Christoph Waltz absolutely own every scene he’s in. He is to this movie what Heath Ledger’s Joker was to “The Dark Knight.” ‘Nuff said.

Trey Treviño is a sophomore CTV major. He can be reached for comment at [email protected].