For his latest blood fest, Django Unchained, Quentin Tarantino largely replays all of his other blood fests, specifically his last flick, Inglourious Basterds.
In that 2009 tale of wickedly savage retribution, Allied Jewish soldiers get to rewrite World War II history by going on a killing spree of Nazis. In Tarantinos new tale of wickedly savage retribution, a black man (Jamie Foxx) gets to rewrite Deep South history by going on a killing spree of white slave owners and overseers just before the Civil War.
Granted, theres something gleefully satisfying in watching evil people get what they have coming. But Django Unchained is Tarantino at his most puerile and least inventive, the premise offering little more than cold, nasty revenge and barrels of squishing, squirting blood.
The usual Tarantino genre mishmash – a dab of blaxploitation here, a dollop of Spaghetti Western there – is so familiar now that its tiresome.
Tarantino always gets good actors who deliver, though, and its the performances by Foxx, Leonardo DiCaprio, Christoph Waltz and Samuel L. Jackson that make Django Unchained intermittently entertaining amid moments when the characters are either talking one another to death or just plain killing each other.
Foxxs Django starts literally in chains, part of a line of slaves on their way to the auction block. Genteel bounty hunter King Schultz (Waltz) turns up searching for Django because the slave can identify three elusive overseers with a price on their heads. Next thing you know, Djangos apprenticing as a bounty hunter, forming a partnership with King that takes them deeper south in hopes of freeing Djangos wife, Broomhilda (Kerry Washington).
The trail leads them to a plantation owned by Calvin Candie (DiCaprio), a dandy who trains slaves for barbarous Mandingo fighting.
There are morbidly funny moments as Django and King infiltrate the plantation posing as buyers, the two sharing twisted exchanges with the flamboyantly creepy Candie and his chief house slave and Uncle Tom gone psycho, Stephen (Jackson).
Tarantino mostly lets them prattle on to such lengths that whatever tension was building is defused. A scene in which a posse of Klan forerunners (led by Don Johnson) debates the difficulties of seeing out of their white hoods is hilarious for a few moments. But then they talk the gag into the ground and keep on talking.
The humor co-exists uneasily and often clumsily alongside a story so charged with racial enmity. Tarantinos solution to everything is to put guns and dynamite into peoples hands, and while that might be good escapism in a gangster story, it feels flimsy and childish here.