An ugly amalgam of Jewish revenge movie, revisionist WWII fantasy and cinephilia self-indulgence, Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds strikes me as a folly on a grand scale. The enthusiasm that I’d managed to work up for the movie sustained itself through the bravura opening sequence but the success of that set-piece only served to make the film's progressive slide into puerility all the more dispiriting. Sure, there’s stuff to appreciate – in particular, some good work from a Euro cast including Diane Kruger, Daniel Bruhl, Christoph Waltz and Melanie Laurent – but what I liked about the movie didn’t compensate for what I hated: Brad Pitt’s awful performance, the cavalier attitude to violence (the scalping scenes seem designed to thrill viewers who drooled over Reservoir Dogs’s ear-slicing), the show-offy cinema refs, the bizarre cameos (Mike Myers as a British General, Rod Taylor as Churchill), and the sheer stupidity of the whole clunking contraption. And since the movie expresses barely a shred of feeling for any of its characters, the actors' efforts finally go to waste. A horrible piece of work.