Sanguine on Cotton


Dear Quentin,

You’d have been delighted with the faces of the two old gits sitting in front of me. Down-their-noses whines of “gratuitous violence” abounded. I imaginarily told them off, reminding them that nay – YOU just choose to show gore’s true form – it’s just everyone else that shies away from it.

They didn’t exactly think it was supposed to be a reflection of life in Cafe de Paris – a Hot Club adventure with an appendagely-challenged guitarist. But they certainly didn’t expect THIS – Far More Mandingo than Manouche.

And then – there was THE word. If you use it in the RIGHT way, the ONLY way, you’re free to go, Django-style. You can’t have a film set in the Deep South – subject: slavery and oppression and the escape therefrom, without using it. Despite its despicability, this is one of those regrettably ugly words that says SO much more about the fucking arsewipes who used it. And Ohhhh – your arsewipes were sublime.

You tell a story that NEEDS telling. And re-telling – lest we forget. And we need to watch it.

Sanguine on cotton…beautifully horrific. Delicious Fruit, Strange Fruit that one day, would rise up from oppression to prove that there is only one race – the HUMAN race. This Strange Fruit which, one OTHER day, would be President of the WORLD.

Thespically speaking, of COURSE Waltz was sublime – but he’d set the bar SO high (*points to Jupiter*) with Hans Landa that he certainly had his work cut out here. Still, he managed to light up that screen for every FRAME he was present, and I really missed him when he wasn’t.

You made sure that Chrissie baby only hung around as long as he was needed, though – i.e. as soon as Foxxy was ready to come out from under his wing and become Marvin Gaye as a Gunslingin’ Badass Bounty Hunter. But, truth be told, I didn’t CARE for Foxxy much – you gave him no REAL depth, he just WAS.

Samuel L wins the prize for most fucking evil Uncle fucking Tom, and Kerry Washington nicely underacted her love, her fear, and loathing. DeCaprio was – well – DeCaprio. Competent enough, nasty bastard, but didn’t give me shivers. He never does, though, so I suppose that’s only half your fault.

Gorgeously-paced and pot-boiled to a bubbling hot payoff, each scene was essential. I could have done with more, actually – more of Django’s life story, not least to make for a juicer moment of satisfaction when the baddies GET IT.  (See lack of depth, above) And more YOU. It wasn’t Quentish enough.

Favourite moments? The hood scene working on so many levels – crushingly funny on face value, but a lovely little framed painting nonetheless of RIDICULOUS brainwashed-to-brainless dickheads viewing (or not) life through equally ridiculous hoods. Also – kudos for that equine pair – one white horse and one brown…it didn’t go unnoticed.

You didn’t  completely let me down – your own throwing-a-six-scene being a case in point. I can see you pitching that idea now: Tell You What – Let’s Have Me Snuff It In A Huge ACME Dynamite Explosion Leaving Only My Boots Behind…this is where your inner geek meets mine. (Although, you probably don’t even HAVE to pitch these days, do you? And damn right, too).

Anyway, this is the end of a speedy five-minute missive – being that I have just got in from the flicks. I am now off to the land of nod to replay the scenes to my subconscious and to dream of large, wobbling false teeth.

Until We Meet Again.


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