Genre: Drama, western
Relase Date: 25 Dec 2012
Director: Quentin Tarantino
Runtime: 2h 45min
Movie Bio : Django Unchained, I wrote that it was as deplorable and delicious as a forbidden cigarette. This second time around I’m still dizzy, from something meaner than nicotine. This brilliant and brutal revenge western, with its bromcom double act from Jamie Foxx and Christoph Waltz, is set among the slave plantations of pre-civil war America. It is partly based on the 1960s cult Django westerns starring Franco Nero (who returns in cameo here) and partly on the notorious 1975 exploitation picture Mandingo, but it’s distinctive on its own fantastically outrageous terms: an audacious and horribly funny comic-book nightmare.
Foxx plays Django, a slave in 1858, who on being transported through Texas in the bitter winter cold, has a fateful encounter with the extraordinary Dr King Schultz, a mysterious German former dentist played by Christoph Waltz with dapper and dainty eccentricity and smilingly faultless English. Django’s new friend gives him a taste of freedom, but is astonished to learn of his connection with a fellow slave, a beautiful woman named Broomhilda (Kerry Washington); it is a mis-hearing of the name “Brünnhilde” given by her German masters. She is being held at the plantation Candieland in Mississippi, owned by the revolting racist and sadist Calvin Candie, unforgettably played by Leonardo DiCaprio. Somehow, and with Schultz’s help, Django must get her out. His soul will never be unchained until he sets his love free and takes a terrible revenge on her oppressor.
Tarantino, king of the comeback, famously returned John Travolta to the pop-culture frontline for Pulp Fiction and indeed renewed crime writer Eddie Bunker’s pulp-fiction stardom by getting him an acting gig as Mr Blue in Reservoir Dogs. Now Tarantino has made his own comeback, after a recent worrying slump, with his best film since Kill Bill: Vol. 1.
It’s certainly an awful lot better than the previous film Inglourious Basterds, which I attacked on account of its misfiring spaghetti-Nazi theme and bafflingly dull plot. I should here record that many did not agree with this view, and my previous lavish praise for the great man only seemed to make things worse. Someone online called me a “petulant Taranteenybopper” throwing a strop. Well, possibly. For me, Tarantino had always been the master of a certain type of narcotic euphoria in the cinema, something exquisitely superfluous, something to do with his mastery of surface and style – an ability to make you believe in it and see through it at the same time. That ability has gloriously returned.
DiCaprio’s Candie is hideously self-possessed with Southern politesse and a crocodile grin revealing bad teeth – which, given Dr Schultz’s abandoned vocation, may have been intended by Tarantino as a subliminal ill omen. He has a kind of ruined charisma, a shabby youth running to the seed of early middle age. And he is easily outdone in terms of presence by Foxx’s Django, who after a bizarre experiment with a sub-Pierrot servant costume, carries off the cowboy style with an incomparable swagger.