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The first is the affectionate goodbye between Shosanna and Marcel, which with one tender kiss and with Shosanna’s gesture afterwards, touching her hand to her mouth as she tearfully watches her lover go, establishes the depth of this relationship. And of course this romantic image takes place in the reddish glow of the movie projection booth: their romance is explicitly cinematic, just as the film’s vision of vengeance is cinematic. The second image that really sticks with me is the shot from behind Marcel as he’s standing at the back of the screen, waiting for his cue to ignite the fire. He’s smoking a cigarette, and a halo of white smoke wafts around his head as, on the screen towering above him, spent shells fall into piles, mirroring the pile of film stock just below.

It’s at moments like this that Tarantino is at his most spiritual, where I can really see what Keith is talking about when he compares the director to a fire-and-brimstone preacher. These haunting images, and many more like them in Inglourious Basterds, have the power of myth, of great fantasy. It’s the power of the cinema, of course, and also the power of the imagination—the power to imagine a world, not only where things turn out better than they do in real life, but where everything’s more romantic, more exciting, more vibrant in its colors and sounds.

JB: Right. Tarantino creates movies that exist in a vibrant cinema universe. Going from one QT flick to the next can be like wandering through the smaller “lands” of Disneyland—we are aware all the time that this is make-believe, but we are overwhelmed by the sense of total immersion. At his best, Tarantino creates fantastical realities.

Having watched Inglourious Basterds twice now, and seeing it again in my mind as you described those two beautiful images, it strikes me that Tarantino’s films are precious because—in spite of all their adult interests—they are filled with a childlike awe for cinema that’s amazingly timeless. In his conversation with Matt, Keith copped to the fact that his initial jaw-dropping reaction to the chronological leaps of Reservoir Dogs was enhanced by his relative naïveté at the time: “I can hear the cinephiles now,” Keith said, “saying, ’Oh, what a sad child, to have experienced Tarantino before Godard.’” That’s always been one of the knocks on Tarantino: that he’s some kind of pirate, plundering cinema history and repackaging the goods under his own flag in order to profit from the ignorance of the audience. But here’s the thing: Tarantino’s films are infused with the spirit of discovery even when we can spot their influences. Inglourious Basterds, for one, seems to increase in power in tandem with one’s appreciation of cinematic history. Ignorance lessens its impact.

So while Tarantino has unquestionably received too much credit in some areas over the years, in others he’s been tragically undersold. To well-seasoned film fans, he offers nostalgic time warps. Keith is probably correct that Reservoir Dogs would have had a different effect on him in 1992 if he’d been familiar with Godard. But that doesn’t mean that Reservoir Dogs would have been without the thrill of discovery. Just like watching a romantic movie can stir memories of what it feels like to fall in love in the real world, Tarantino’s love letters to cinema make us remember what it felt like to fall in love with the movies. Touched as if for the very first time.

Jason Bellamy ruminates on cinema at The Cooler.

Ed Howard chronicles his film viewing at Only the Cinema.

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