Note: The following essay, which is obviously being published months after the release of Inglourious Basterds, was written for a literary criticism class that explores theory behind literary criticism and focuses on analyzing textual works from a variety of perspectives. This assignment involved using these tools of literature to explore a work outside of the written word — I chose Inglourious Basterds.  I thought I’d share it in order to show just how relevant Basterds is to the craft as a whole, so enjoy it!

To argue that filmed media such as motion pictures and television shows should not be judged or viewed in the same critical light as a piece of literature is overlooking an essential facet of this media. Film is rooted in the written word, and every event in motion is sparked by a screenplay that could easily merit a critical analysis of form, depth, and “literariness.” Literature and film are not not mere tangents of each other, nor do they share vague, accidental similarities, but instead exist as branches of one tree that infinitely stretch out to layer the world around us. Thus, film is as readily analyzable as any written text, as long as a critic is willing to examine this medium by using the theory behind literary form.

Jonathan Culler’s tri-fold definition of literariness can easily apply to the arena of film without need for much adjustment. However, to attempt to find the “best” example of a film that possesses literary qualities is a fool’s errand. Such a quest attempts to differentiate too greatly between the two mediums of literature and film, or between all existent art forms, for that matter. I can name fifteen films on the shelf behind me that have moved me as greatly as any novel while not forsaking depth, subtext, characterization or intricacy for dazzling effects work. I choose to use as an example the film that is not only freshest in my memory, but also has expanded in meaning and shifted my perceptions upon subsequent viewings — a surefire sign of scholarly attention to detail. This film is Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds, which is layered with deft material by a keen artisan’s eye, resulting in a text that cries out to be explored from poetic and hermeneutical vantage points.

Culler states that to analyze literature is to “keep before us … the suspension of the demand for immediate intelligibility” (Culler 41). In a broader, more accessible sense, I feel this is the critical ability to revel in a sort of pleasant (or unpleasant, if the writer sees fit) ambiguity as an arc of characters and storyline unfolds. This is highly contrasted with our day-to-day lives, in which dialogue is simple and functional, and our worldly imagery is often taken at face value. The best films are able to tap into this ideal uniquely — a film leaves no breathing room as far as imagery goes. Readers of novels may envision a thousand different faces for a given character, a thousand intonations of a given sentence. Brought to life on the screen by actors and directors, however, a screenplay becomes more specific. This may be seen as a constraint that limits the extent of a film’s “literariness,” which forces a filmmaker to expand depth by detailing between the lines. This can be achieved through depth of cinematography and detail or the minute variables of inflection behind lines of dialogue. Thus, literariness in film is embodied in the work of every person responsible for a movie, from screenwriters to actors to the key grip who lights up sets.

One specific way Inglourious Basterds transcends this constraint is in the myriad oblique ways it hints and doesn’t tell. Tarantino demonstrates an ability to breathe life into every living corner of the film for our analysis. Why, for instance, are the titular Basterds only peripheral characters in a movie that bears their name, and only tangentially related to the film’s outcome? It is up to the critic to decipher the deliberate misspelling of the title, and the possibly unintentional filmmaking mistakes — a need for immediate intelligibility is expanded, and the implication of the misspelling is instead dwelled upon. The title of the film is scrawled in the opening credits with Tarantino’s own handwriting as depicted on the cover for his original screenplay. But why? Why is such a personal flair so asymmetrical from the rest of Tarantino’s catalogue utilized in this particular film, or is it of importance at all? To seek an answer to this question is a viable option for the same reason any literary text is worthy of analysis, under the umbrella that Culler labels the “hyper-protected cooperative principle,” which proclaims that the mere existence of such a potential irrelevancy dictates its importance and worthiness of exploration (Culler 62). Outside of the realm of literariness — in this case, embodied in the screenplay and finished film — this misspelling would be seen as ignorant nonsense, an unfortunately personalized typo.

Culler also cites the importance of “reflection on the implication of means of expression” (Culler 41). Through cinematography, a film has the power to express theme and voice on an almost subconscious level, when executed correctly. There are moments within Inglourious Basterds that are downright blatant in their homage to expressionism (or is it expressionism itself?), layering new and often unsettling meanings upon images that we’re familiar with from films such as The Wizard of Oz in a striking example of postmodern metafiction. But it’d be a disservice to the film to call the references it makes entirely blatant; a greater percentage of the imagery functions on another level. For instance, it can’t be unintentional that the introduction of “The Bear Jew” occurs in a leafy drainage system subconsciously evocative of the Holocaust imagery we’re so accustomed to. Or can it? The director certainly had a hand in the formation of sets and the scouting of locations for filming. Is it an accident that our minds are trained toward that grim thought, or are we being towed by successful filmmaking? These are the same sort of questions we may read into a novel: is it happenstance that a new story may evoke the characters of Shakespeare or the imagery of The Odyssey? The craftsman filmmaker, like the master of literature, has a keen understanding of where the branches of his or her tree may extend into the consciousness — what themes are similarly evoked, and where the roots for their own work rest in the ground. This tree only extends further by inviting the critic (as a work of literature does) to invest the film with his or her own interpretations, and exploring the possibilities of reference and depth.

Thus, Inglourious Basterds is operating on two levels intertwined: the first seeks to deliver a visceral and emotional experience solely through unique imagery — one unaware of The Wizard of Oz would simply be struck by Inglourious Basterds’ power. The latter operation is the film’s process of drawing attention to its own references, demanding for the critic to contemplate deliberate strokes and their implications in the broader spectrum of film and storytelling. This is quite comparable to two central methods of research used by psychologists in order to investigate human behavior, beliefs, and motives. The idiographic approach is an attempt to study the uniqueness of an individual, and the differences that distinguish that individual from the rest of society. The nomothetic approach, on the other hand, investigates the common threads between people by studying a wider range of individuals at once. Thus, the first level of analysis of this film (in other words, emphasizing the emotional experience conveyed by its imagery) could be equated to an idiographic approach or a case study, in which the uniqueness of Inglourious Basterds as a work of art becomes apparent. Contrarily, the second level can be seen as a nomothetic attempt to embed the film in a world that serves to deepen the meaning of Tarantino’s work.

This world doesn’t strictly apply to the spectrum of film, but to a vast universe of references. Take, for example, the interrogation scene of a Nazi officer in the aforementioned drainage system. As the scene (in which the rebellious Jewish “Basterds” gain the upper hand) becomes more and more brutal, a single, yellow, dead leaf falls from an overhanging tree in the autumn scene. The leaf floats down and finally rests on the chest of a Basterd played by Gedeon Burkhard. It is inarguable that this leaf upon landing resembles the Star of David, enough so that the eye is always drawn to it in the moment. The way this transpires onscreen indicates that it was most likely not a planned event — there are no camera tricks to be found, no special effects — so the moment exists as a lucky result of actor placement and good timing. The craft and literariness of the work dwells in Tarantino’s knowing use of the moment, as a director and editor, to expand the depth of the scene in unanticipated ways. The leaf could simply be seen as an accident, or a deliberate stroke to invest a scene of visceral brutality with a stamp of cultural significance and history. The moment could be inherently beautiful, as any successful piece of literature is, or aesthetically gripping due to the schema of connections it creates, subconsciously weaving pulp fiction into a realistic context.

This isn’t to say that context — either filmic or historical — is the essential element in viewing a film through the lens of literature. However, in the case of Inglourious Basterds (and much of Tarantino’s remaining catalogue), this is likely to be the most dominant ingredient. Tarantino is simply so precocious in his knowledge of film that his work has often been criticized as moving beyond intertextuality toward blatant homage and plagiarism. It would be hard to argue against the fact that his style is blatant; however, it would be harder to argue that it thrives perfectly by serving as a commentary upon both the world of film and the real world that has produced these films. Intertextuality is present between Inglourious Basterds and the surface of media violence that has enabled its existence, just as intertexuality is present between the film and those who have paved the way for it.

To exemplify the intertextuality on display in the film, it is important to examine Culler’s statements regarding the importance of the critic’s attention to “how meaning is made and pleasure produced” (Culler 41). In the case of Inglourious Basterds, the work particularly thrives in the way it has divided the spectrum of its critical audience. It bisects the attentive viewer by heaping a great deal of excitatory violence on his or her plate as a means of release; one feels their blood boiling as tension builds in the film and violence is ratcheted up. However, the film simultaneously forces this viewer to question the emotion felt due to the subject material at hand: as an audience member, are you being asked to make a judgment call on the appropriateness of violence in cinema? If so, what does this say about your bloodlust, your fascination with what is transpiring? These are questions that are actively asked throughout the film. Tarantino is manipulative in Inglourious Basterds, and his work is self-aware. As perverse and cartoonish as many of the moments in the film may be, they still warrant a place within the arena of critical commentary simply through the understanding of their place within the realm of violent cinema. No haphazard bloodshed in the film is executed haphazardly, and every gruesome moment of self-indulgence is engineered to coerce the viewer into questioning his or her taste for the violence they’re observing.

Inglourious Basterds makes a statement about innate violence that is illustrated specifically enough and broadly enough, through text and subtext, to be explored through a variety of perspectives; yet, as with any literary work, conclusions drawn from these perspectives will be reached in drastically different ways. It is this ambiguity of stylistic choice and moral statement is the labyrinthine aspect of the film — and of the best films in general — that intertwines Basterds with literary material, solidifying its foundation as a piece of literature itself, and warrants its exploration through literary study on a level equal to any novel.

Culler, Jonathan. Literary Theory: A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford University

Press, 2000.

You can make a hundred comparisons between Oren Peli’s Paranormal Activity and that monumental symbol of the hype machine, The Blair Witch Project.

The similarities are obvious: both are essentially ghost stories, told from faux-documentary video footage. Both have small casts of nobodies, first-time directors, and most critically, both have witnessed huge theatrical success despite low budgets.

In almost every review or editorial about Paranormal Activity, you’ll hear about The Blair Witch Project, and for good reason: Peli’s film couldn’t exist without Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sanchez’s film. Love it or hate it, Blair Witch was a seminal film, a shift in how independent film was seen in the public eye.

So why do I hate The Blair Witch Project and really like Paranormal Activity?

Here’s why: Paranormal Activity is the definition of a slow burn, with a finale that delivers the goods by twisting you around its little finger and then slicing that finger off with a knife. After watching it, you’ll never need to see it again. It’ll never function as well again on a second go around, because the marvelous thing about this sort of film is not knowing where it’s headed.

The Blair Witch Project, on the other hand, isn’t a slow burn — it’s stagnant water. I’m not simply talking about the ending, which I refuse to believe scared anyone, in theaters or on video. I’m talking about a film filled with rustling leaves and not much else.

Peli’s film shows us things, using old tricks that are comparable to a magician’s slight of hand. It’s not fancy, but it’s also not afraid to take the concepts that Blair Witch started and push them in the direction they should have gone since the release of that film.

Instead, there was a decade long silence since Blair Witch. Is the basis for all these comparisons really the fact that no film like Blair Witch has been given a chance to explode in the mainstream until Paranormal Activity?

Unfortunately, the Hollywood system will make the same mistake it always has. Just as the studio pumped more money into Myrick and Sanchez to make Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2, this weekend revealed the news that a sequel to Paranormal Activity is in the works, which will certainly up the ante in the budget area.

Let me clue you in, studios: this is a horrible idea that flies in the face of everything that has college kids screaming in crowded theaters this month. Whether you love or hate Blair Witch and Paranormal Activity, they have succeeded on the level of being immediately relatable to audiences via the appearance of realism. With more money, that foundation is lost.

And when that foundation is lost, Saw will reign supreme again. A chance at showing studios that audiences are savvy to something new and exciting will be lost, and it’s back to Formula A, the one we’re so well-acquainted with already.

That’s the worst thing for the horror genre I could possibly imagine.

2009 and 2010 will see the release of two films by master visionary directors — Alice in Wonderland by Tim Burton and The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus by Monty Python alum Terry Gilliam. In a world that’s full to the brim of remakes and reboots, unoriginal thought after unoriginal thought, you’d think we’d be happy to see some artistic ingenuity. And before you start: yes, I’m aware that Alice in Wonderland is in no way a “new” idea, but it’s been quite a while since it has been brought to life on screen effectively.

This got me thinking though, with the release of Alice in March and Parnassus this coming December, that here we have two directors whose stylistic flair is almost inseparable from their body of work. Each has had their share of blockbuster successes as well as flops. When they flop, they tend to flop hard. I’m looking at you, Adventures of Baron Munchausen.

However, there seems to be a double standard at play: Burton has suffered through a vast amount of criticism in the past decade or so for continuing to adhere to his style of gritty, scratchy curvature and the grotesque, while Gilliam is associated with the word “visionary” as much as any working director today. Why is this? Is there some landmark in the directors’ bodies of work that justify these claims, or is it simply a matter of personal taste?

Gilliam gets praise immediately for his association with Monty Python — his artistry and involvement with the group that revolutionized comedy in the modern age solidifies his status as “important.” His Monty Python and the Holy Grail is an absolute classic, as is Brazil. He got some of the best performances out of Bruce Willis and Brad Pitt with 12 Monkeys. But then he’s got others: the aforementioned Munchausen, the critically panned Tideland, and the horrible Brothers Grimm.

Burton’s career kicked off with a bang — Edward Scissorhands is often considered his finest, followed by the blockbuster Batman and its sequel. He’s often associated with The Nightmare Before Christmas (a film he didn’t direct, but had incredible stylistic control over). But somewhere between those films and Big Fish, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and Sweeney Todd, he fell out of favor with many.

This doesn’t seem to be a matter of possessing a classic embedded in your name — I would consider Nightmare, despite how Hot Topic culture has soiled the name, to be a classic of Burton’s. It seems to be a matter of engineering your films in a manner that matches your style. Gilliam has always been able to evolve his visuals — the design of 12 Monkeys is nothing like Holy Grail, but both are characteristically Gilliam. On the other hand, Burton collides his aesthetic with the subject material in ways that don’t necessarily congeal — Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is an example of a story that simply doesn’t benefit from his designs.

I have a lot of hope in both Alice and Parnassus, though — the latter seems to be a wonderfully diverse film with Gilliam’s prevalent sense of bravado, while Alice seems to be diminishing Burton’s usual flair in an effort to capture the essence of the original story. This is Tim Burton’s chance to prove he’s an excellent storyteller once again, and not simply a great artist with an acquired taste. To see both of these directors go head to head within four months of each other is an exciting prospect.

This past week, I revisited the Back to the Future trilogy, directed by Robert Zemeckis. These films essentially laid the groundwork for Michael J. Fox’s career — the man is synonymous with Marty McFly. The movies are a mad dash, guaranteed to raise your stress level and blood pressure no matter how many times you see them. I swear, I always think Dr. Emmett Brown and Marty are going to miss their one lighting quick chance to send Marty back to the future in the first film, despite watching it happen probably hundreds of times.

They got me thinking though — do we have any young actors like Fox in these films, frantic but cool, likeable but authoritative? Do any young guys have a role that’s so synonymous with their name that they’ll never be able to part from it?

Shia LeBeouf, for example, is probably most closely associated with the Transformers movies. As Sam Witwicky, he has the Spielbergian frantic nature of the young male role down pat. He’s aloof and certainly likeable (perhaps diminished by his off-screen personality, in some people’s opinions). But I never felt while watching those films that he was supposed to be anything but “cool.” Marty McFly was cool, but also in over his head, naive and fairly stupid. LeBeouf actually probably comes closer to resembling this in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, a role that he was pretty hated for.

It seems that Hollywood has been unable to tether young actors to blockbuster roles the way Fox has forever been tied to McFly. Heath Ledger will obviously be legendary for his work as The Joker, but he was approaching his thirties, and certainly The Joker wasn’t a hero. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, despite turning in stunningly great performances, doesn’t conjure up a particular name other than his own.

Daniel Radcliffe is the only actor, in my mind, who has achieved this — he is the face of the Harry Potter franchise, and likely always will be. Perhaps Robert Pattinson in Twilight, as much as it hurts me to say, embodies this as well? Michael Cera still has a chance, as does Emile Hirsch, to become the face of a series or franchise that a generation can connect to.

Two notes before I’m out of here — first, this isn’t to say that young actors aren’t turning in good work. In fact, I’d argue that the shift from big blockbuster roles to more sophisticated character pieces is a great thing that’s happened. I’d much rather see Emile Hirsch turn in a wonderful performance in Milk than another Speed Racer, and Gordon-Levitt’s (500) Days of Summer was as relatable to me as a young man as any big blockbuster could hope to be.

Second: I’m not excluding female actors for any reason other than I intend to write more about their presence in big Hollywood films in the future. That, and I think the male dominance in pop culture-accessible roles like Marty McFly in Back to the Future has shifted to a female dominance in a big, big way.

Till next time, folks.

What is it about the Coppola family that makes the substance of Francis Ford Coppola’s films so often driven by what happens behind a family’s closed doors?

It’s never exactly a positive situation, either: his Godfather trilogy is about the implosion of a family, the fall of a son and an effort to sustain a lineage. The final famous frame of The Godfather is of a door closing Michael Corleone from view of his loving wife, sealing his own doom.

Then there’s the behind the scenes element of his films — the casting of family members such as Talia Shire and Sofia Coppola in her much derided performance in The Godfather Part III (which, if I may go on record, isn’t half as bad as it’s usually said to be). Then there’s Carmine Coppola, Francis’ father, who composed much of the scores for the Godfather films as well as for Apocalypse Now.

And of course, Sofia went on to make Lost in Translation.

And then there’s the whole wine label thing.

So what’s there to complain about? The New York-raised director belongs to an Italian-American family of great recipes, great talent, and great entrepreneurship. For all the affection Francis Ford Coppola has for his family, has he ever made a film that paints family in a favorable light?

Rumble Fish and The Outsiders, maybe. But those aren’t really families in the sense of the word that I mean.

Tetro, Coppola’s latest film starring Vincent Gallo and the incredibly talented newcomer Alden Ehrenreich, is the most domestic film the director has ever made. Ehrenreich, as Bennie, seeks to uncover the mystery behind his older brother Tetro (Gallo) and his mysterious writings. There’s complicated themes of incestual undertones, and as I mentioned in my review of the film, an amazingly simple Oedipal story that brings the focus full swing to the performances, which are great across the board.

The film was written by Coppola himself, and it shows: a lead character whose a writer struggling under the shadow of his composer father? It’s broad symbolism, if you have a fairly strong knowledge of Coppola, but it serves Tetro well. The film is more relaxed and comfortable than the director has shown himself capable of in years.

Of course drama is rooted in conflict — it’s not a mystery why there’s a wall of misunderstanding and mystery between the two brothers in this film. No wall existed between the Corleone family — that’s why so many of them ended up dead.

It’s simply curious to me that a man’s affections for his family — when in the hands of a writer and director — has seemingly no outlet but to paint it in a favorable and nearly always sappy light (Elizabethtown comes to mind), or to damage it by embedding it within destruction. Coppola takes the latter route — he shows his adoration and admiration by showing off family recipes and pitting siblings against one another.

Perhaps to F.F.C., ruination of the family structure is the sincerest form of flattery.

One week ago, news broke regarding the next entry in Sylvester Stallone’s Rambo franchise.

Rambo V: The Savage Hunt will divert the franchise into science fiction territory akin to Predator.

The official plot synopsis according to Aint it Cool News was loud and clear:

A beast is loose somewhere north of the Arctic Circle…And the raging creature is headed south toward civilization, ready to wreak bloody devastation…It’s a job that Rambo and his 22-year-old hunting partner, Beau Brady, can’t turn down, but they and a team of highly skilled Special Forces Kill Team [sic] discover that the prey is beyond their wildest imagination, a half-human abomination created by a renegade agency through a series of outlawed genetic experiments…they’ll still have to confront the grim reality that it may have grown immortal.

As far as I know, the only franchises to really change its genre in the middle of the series (although this will quite possibly be the end of this one) have been the Evil Dead series, which shifted from horror to horror-comedy to adventure-comedy, and the Alien series which flip-flopped twice from dramatic horror to straight-up action films.

Even those are stretches, though, that don’t compare to this. It’s an unprecedented fluctuation that seems to tear a gap in all sense of reason — a series of four anti-war bloodbath action films followed by a far out, clunky monster movie? I don’t intend to evaluate the film before I see more of it, but the concept is obviously strange.

I understand the intention — we’ve seen John Rambo slaughter hundreds of lesser fools, so now the next step is to pit him against some sort of equal, and I gather that the only being in existence capable of challenging him must be a creature from outer space.

However, to say that this is a possible misstep is an understatement — too many elements being introduced are new while straying too far from the subject material. Beau Brady will diminishing the lonely quality of the lead character, which was the central conceit to begin with. Colonel Trautman’s guidance throughout the first three films doesn’t seem to have any bearing on what Rambo is in store for.

The film won’t even have a bloodbath on its side, if Stallone’s intended PG-13 rating is set in stone. Rambo was a far cry from First Blood, but on a visceral level it was perhaps the most satisfying entry in the series.

I’m obviously evaluating the film on a conceptual level, but it just seems that the series has the potential to jump the shark at an awfully late stage in the game (fire shooting out of both sides of Rambo’s torso in Rambo III seems like an everyday occurrance in comparison). Never was the series heralded as an incredibly deep character piece, but the humanity steadily decreased throughout the series.

Now, it almost seems a meta joke to feed Rambo to a non-human enemy. This is a far cry from Vietnam. A war I won’t believe? I don’t doubt it.

As I sit and stare at the new Inglourious Basterds poster that adorns my wall, a hundred different thoughts run through my mind, memories from my first (and sadly, only) viewing of the film over a week ago. Perhaps it’s the fact that each major character is present on the poster, bearing a unique facial expression that summarizes their agenda in Quentin Tarantino’s war. Eli Roth’s Bear Jew is a bloodthirsty madman. Pitt’s face is skeptical and mischievous. Shoshanna is wounded, vengeful.

Perhaps moreso than ever before, Tarantino has crafted an ensemble cast of characters with such fleshed out detail that for once I care. I love Pulp Fiction beyond a shadow of a doubt, but I’d be hard pressed to name a character I feel for enough to cringe at their timely disaster. Jackie Brown‘s got a whole bunch of well-rounded characters, but just because I love Michael Keaton’s Ray Nicolette doesn’t mean I’m there with him.

Basterds on the other hand — it’s a film about wounded people, angry people, lashing out at each other with all of their talents, as diverse as they may be. For Hugo, this equates to a bloodbath. Shoshanna is fire and smoke and theatrics. For Col. Hans Landa, words are enough to pierce to the bone, and he knows it.

You’ve probably realized by now that this barely constitutes a “Mirror/Mirror” comparison, and that’s true — I’ve just been dying to write about this film. I feel as if I owe it to Inglourious Basterds for existing. For every ten, fifteen films that are released and seem to be very good, only a select few are transcendent. I’ve seen dozens of art house films that warrant disdain — Tarantino’s commentary on the art form itself, by way of schlocky violence and grit and meta self-reflection, is truer art in the poppy attitude it has than most of them.

In fact, it was so transcendent an experience that it was hard to define the myriad reasons I was in love with it instantly upon exiting the theater. I’m sure many people felt this way — in fact, I know it, I’ve seen it. I’ve been unable to write about it simply because it would take a few more revisits to pinpoint the reasons amongst reasons that I adore the film absolutely. The only film I can consider comparing it to yet on that level would be Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood.

It’s somewhat ironic that I stumbled upon Tarantino’s review of There Will Be Blood this week (which I’ve included after this article), as no two films have inspired such diarrhea of the mouth in me as that film and Tarantino’s latest. Two of the freshest, most unpredictable and magnetic, lightning in a bottle films of my lifetime thus far. I compare them because with both, although I love a thousand things about them, I just can’t explain it. Not it. Not the lingering sensation the film leaves that become rooted in my mind afterward, encompassing dialogue and action and trivialities.

But, if I must, for the sake of rooting the article to something concrete I give you the example comparison between Daniel Plainview and Hans Landa, our protagonist villains, evil heroes, basterds. Both Anderson and Tarantino beef up these characters to an unstoppable degree, empowering them with unparalleled gifts of wordplay and manipulation. Then, they set up a domino world for their characters to knock down like monsters, each brutal and intimidating conversation unveiling a new element of character.

That really doesn’t do the trick, I know. But it’s a start — for God’s sake, I could write a book about every thought that crosses my mind when I watch There Will Be Blood. I just can’t wait until Inglourious Basterds joins that film on my shelf — two character driven works of cinema, dirty little whirlwinds of fascinating plot that allow the viewer to read between the lines and decipher a little piece more every time.

There Will Be Blood and Inglourious Basterds. Ladies and gentlemen, we are a lucky audience.

These two films are not only some of the best films of the decade, but they are defining works of their filmmakers’ careers. Check them out immediately. They’re dialogue-driven, relentless, fascinating and elemental.

(Minor Spoiler Warning for District 9 and the Alien series)

I’m not going to lie — after seeing Inglourious Basterds this weekend it’s hard to think about much else, and while I intended to write an article about it, I feel I must see it at least once more in theaters to even begin comparing it effectively. It’s such an individual work that I’m not sure where to begin.

Instead (and at the risk of beating a dead horse), I felt I’d take one more look at the second best film of the summer, District 9. Make no mistake — in any other summer, this would be the best thing you could lay your eyes on. Neill Blomkamp’s film is distinct and unique, and features two lead characters that are far more empathetic than the usual summer fare. One of them is the creation of a computer and motion-capture technology, more effective than Gollum or King Kong could have hoped to be.

While the faux-documentary style of the first 20 minutes or so of the film are the remainder of a short film used to lobby for this project, the rest of the film is as innovative as any work of science fiction to be released in the past decade, alongside works such as Moon and Alfonso Cuaron’s Children of Men. The elements that do feel familiar are the human trappings of the genre itself — particularly, greed as a motivating factor, compounded with technology and the interruption of a new unforeseen factor. In this case, it is the “prawn” species. In the past, it’s been everything from HAL 9000 to a floating, bleak monolith to the fanged, insect-like species from Alien.

That last one bears much in common with District 9. If only the xenomorphs from the Alien series were a little more civil and communicative (as if), District 9 could easily be a sequel story, with MNU being the new “Company,” the new Weyland-Yutani. Our hero Wikus is another fool endlessly tortured by greedy commerce as Ellen Ripley is. In these science fiction stories, human beings cease to be that and are tools, methods to weaponry, and lives are decided by suits.

In one of the most memorable exchanges from District 9, some of these suits discuss the fate of our hero, who is strapped to a gurney, his DNA slowly melding with that of the “prawn” race. It is mentioned that any attempt to gather the bodily elements needed to operate alien weaponry will be of deadly consequence to Wikus, whose father-in-law stands above him, clutching his hand. “I say we go for it,” says an anonymous executive, muttering an effective death sentence.

I can imagine Ripley’s fate decided much the same way. Corporate greed and science fiction, hand in hand, as always.

District 9 is out in theaters, and it’s a knockout work for a first-time feature director. The Alien franchise launched the careers of Ridley Scott, James Cameron, and David Fincher, each entry proving to be a unique thematic look at its titular creature. All of them are must-see.