Inglourious Basterds Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2009 by Quentin Tarantino

  Introduction copyright © DLR, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Inglourious Basterds is copublished by Weinstein Books and Little, Brown and Company.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/littlebrown

  First eBook Edition: July 2009

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-08065-1

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ALSO BY QUENTIN TARANTINO

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER ONE: “ONCE UPON A TIME IN …NAZI-OCCUPIED FRANCE”

  CHAPTER TWO: “INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS”

  CHAPTER THREE: “GERMAN NIGHT IN PARIS”

  CHAPTER FOUR: “OPERATION KINO”

  CHAPTER FIVE: “REVENGE OF THE GIANT FACE”

  Also by Quentin Tarantino

  Death Proof

  Natural Born Killers

  Pulp Fiction

  Reservoir Dogs

  True Romance

  From Dusk Till Dawn

  Jackie Brown

  INTRODUCTION

  Years back, I knew a kid like Quentin Tarantino. At eleven, Scott was a genius. His specialty wasn’t imagery, dark humor, history, or anything human. He was a freak with machines. I’d give the boy my worn-out electronics and broken boxes of technology. He’d hand me back an 8-track player flashlight. A cassette toaster. An LP turntable clock-radio.

  I never questioned Scott’s reasons for being a Dr. Moreau with a soldering gun. It seemed enough that he brought new things into the world. New trumped any specific use, and invention was its own rationale.

  Likewise, throughout his film career, Quentin Tarantino has crafted things out of the quotidian never seen before. His appreciation of the cinema status quo has long been that of an inventor surveying a junkyard. Time and again he’s picked the past apart, reassembled traditions and clichés alike into forms we recognize only in pieces. His movies burn in our eyes strange and familiar, all at once. Tarantino backs into the future.

  He’s done it again with Inglourious Basterds. In this script, you’ll see a thought bubble cut straight out of comic books. A disembodied narrator who pipes up out of nowhere. Black-and-white imagery recalling venerable French films. A blood-red lens. Flashbacks. The title is even cribbed—complete with misspelling—from a 1978 Italian-made war film. The script remembers, too, the classic propaganda films of Leni Riefenstahl and Joseph Goebbels. It glimpses the faces of Hitler and Churchill and the interior of a wartime movie house in Paris, and zooms in on the horrors of close combat, the mania of vendetta. This is stronger stuff by far than what Scott melted together for me long ago. But Tarantino holds the same awe and reverence for the antecedents as that exuberant and extraordinary boy ever did.

  Inglourious Basterds does not indulge in lampoonery or mere cobbling. It is reverently authentic as a war story, working the same tense, edge-of-the-seat magic as the best of the genre, book or movie. At the same time, it’s Tarantino, its own thing.

  The setting is Paris, mid-June, 1944. The Americans and British are still on their Norman beachheads, slogging inland through heavily defended villages and hedgerows. The German army has not yet admitted to itself an imminent defeat. They’ve gone undisturbed in France for four years and have taken a liking to the place. Soldiers gallivant about Paris, take in the cinema, court those mademoiselles who will have them. But Tarantino’s work always balances on an underlying bedlam. Desperation shows among the Nazis, who speed their efforts to eradicate the last Jews of Europe before the war turns. We sense the clock ticking for Germany in a film produced by Goebbels, meant to buck up the troops by touting a lone sniper who killed 300 Soviets on the Eastern Front. A small cadre of Jewish-American soldiers kills boldly behind enemy lines (Jews who take scalps, another blur from Tarantino’s pen). A young woman plots a secret revenge against the Nazis for the killing of her family.

  While the film itself brings Inglourious Basterds alive in all its color, movement, and dimension, the manuscript provides a separate joy the movie cannot. The raw script provides an unmatched intimacy with the interplay of Tarantino’s dialogue, action, and locale when it is your inner voice delivering the lines, your own mind’s eye shooting the scenes. In addition, Tarantino’s personal voice fills the script in his depictions of motivation (it’s all the way, baby, all the fucking way!), camera directions (we see all three guns pointed at the appropriate crotches), action (they BOTH TAKE and GIVE each other so many BULLETS it’s almost romantic when they collapse DEAD on the floor), and descriptions for characters (a young George Sanders type –“The Saint” and “Private Affairs of Bel Ami” years) and sets (the auditorium resembles something out of Tinto Brass’s Italian B-movie ripoffs of Visconti’s “The Damned”.) You’ll find no seats in any movie house for this wonderful show. It’s theater of the mind, all the way, baby.

  Interestingly, Inglourious Basterds, a World War II movie, contains less of a body count than many of Tarantino’s previous films. While there’s no shortage of mayhem and carnage, it seems the framework of actual historical violence has constrained his own tendencies to apply it so liberally. The script reads like the lives and deaths and terrible acts of real people. Tarantino evokes an actual world at war. It is plausible and terrific.

  The first time I met Quentin Tarantino, we had dinner in a trendy Tribeca restaurant. Before long, he and I were both on our feet, performing “Ya Got Trouble” for the patrons around us. I was in Music Man in high school, so I have an explanation, if not an excuse. I don’t believe Tarantino was ever in the play. The grinning fellow across the room from me tryin’ out Bevo, tryin’out cubebs, tryin’ out Tailor Mades! was America’s greatest cineaste, so enamored with movies that he’s committed to memory even the patter song from Music Man.

  In the script to Inglourious Basterds, Tarantino’s tastes and talents are on display as brightly as if they too were cast onto a big silver screen. You can’t miss them for reading them. He’s in full control of all his material here, the bits from both past and present. This is vintage Tarantino, headed in a new direction.

  To quote the last line of dialogue, delivered by Lt. Aldo Raine, the somewhat warped hero—and it’s not a stretch to believe this is the writer/director himself talking to us off the page—“I think this just might be my masterpiece.”

  The script concludes with a piece of stage direction for all of us:

  They ghoulishly giggle.

  —David L. Robbins, author of The Betrayal Game,The Assassins Gallery, War of the Rats, Liberation Road,Last Citadel, Scorched Earth, The End of War, Souls to Keep, and the forthcoming Broken Jewel.

  EXT—DAIRY FARM—DAY

  The modest dairy farm in the countryside of Nancy, France (what the French call cow country).

  We read a SUBTITLE in the sky above the farmhouse:

  CHAPTER ONE

  “ONCE UPON A TIME IN…NAZI-OCCUPIED FRANCE”

  This SUBTITLE disappears and is replaced by another one:

  “1941


  One year into the German occupation of France”

  The farm consists of a house, a small barn, and twelve cows spread about.

  The owner of the property, a bull of a man, FRENCH FARMER, brings an ax up and down on a tree stump, blemishing his property. However, simply by sight, you’d never know if he’s been beating at this stump for the last year or just started today.

  JULIE

  one of his three pretty teenage daughters, is hanging laundry on the clothesline. As she hangs up a white bedsheet, she hears a noise. Moving the sheet aside, she sees:

  JULIE’S POV

  A Nazi town car convertible, with two little Nazi flags attached to the hood, a NAZI SOLDIER behind the wheel, a NAZI OFFICER alone in the backseat, following TWO OTHER NAZI SOLDIERS on motorcycles, coming up over the hill on the country road leading to their farm.

  JULIE

  Pappa.

  The French farmer sinks his ax in the stump, looks over his shoulder, and sees the Germans approaching.

  The FARMER’S WIFE, CHARLOTTE, comes to the doorway of their home, followed by her TWO OTHER TEENAGE DAUGHTERS, and sees the Germans approaching.

  The farmer yells to his family in FRENCH, SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH:

  FARMER

  Go back inside and shut the door.

  FARMER

  (to Julie)

  Julie, get me some water from the pump to wash up with, then get inside with your mother.

  The young lady runs to the water pump by the house. She picks up a basin and begins pumping. After a few pumps, water comes out, splashing into the basin.

  The French farmer sits down on the stump he was previously chopping away at, pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes sweat from his face, and waits for the Nazi convoy to arrive. After living for a year with the sword of Damocles suspended over his head, this may very well be the end.

  Julie finishes filling the water basin and places it on the windowsill.

  JULIE

  Ready, Pappa.

  FARMER

  Thank you, darling, now go inside and take care of your mother. Don’t run.

  Julie walks inside the farmhouse and closes the door behind her.

  As her father stands up from the stump and moves over to the windowsill with the water basin…

  … The SOUND OF THE ENGINES of the two motorcycles and car get LOUDER.

  The farmer SPLASHES water from the basin on his face and down his front. He takes a towel off a nail and wipes the excess water from his face and chest, as he watches the two motorcycles, the one automobile, and the four representatives of the National Socialist Party come to a halt on his property.

  We don’t move into them but keep observing them from a distance, like the farmer.

  The TWO NAZI MOTORCYCLISTS are off their bikes and standing at attention next to them.

  The NAZI DRIVER has walked around the automobile and opened the door for his superior.

  The NAZI OFFICER says to the driver in UNSUBTITLED GERMAN:

  NAZI OFFICER

  This is the property of Perrier LaPadite?

  NAZI DRIVER

  Yes, Herr Colonel.

  The Nazi officer climbs out of the backseat of the vehicle, carrying in his left hand a black leather attaché case.

  NAZI OFFICER

  Herrman, until I summon you, I am to be left alone.

  NAZI DRIVER

  As you wish, Herr Colonel.

  The S.S. colonel yells to the farmer in FRENCH, SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH:

  NAZI OFFICER

  Is this the property of Perrier LaPadite?

  FARMER

  I am Perrier LaPadite.

  The S.S. colonel crosses the distance between them with long strides and says, in French, with a smile on his face:

  NAZI OFFICER

  It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur LaPadite. I am Colonel Hans Landa of the S.S.

  COL. HANS LANDA offers the French farmer, PERRIER LAPADITE, his hand. The Frenchman takes the German hand in his and shakes it.

  PERRIER

  How may I help you?

  COL. LANDA

  I was hoping you could invite me inside your home and we may have a discussion.

  INT—LAPADITE FARMHOUSE—DAY

  The door to the farmhouse swings open, and the farmer gestures for the S.S. colonel to enter. Removing his gray S.S. cap, the German steps inside the Frenchman’s home.

  Col. Landa is immediately greeted with the sight of the farmer’s wife and three pretty daughters standing together in the kitchen, smiling in his direction.

  The farmer enters behind him, closing the door.

  PERRIER

  Colonel Landa, this is my family.

  The S.S. colonel clicks his heels together and takes the hand of the French farmer’s wife…

  COL. LANDA

  Col. Hans Landa of the S.S., Madame, at your service.

  He kisses her hand, then continues without letting go of his hostess’s hand…

  COL. LANDA

  Please excuse my rude intrusion on your routine.

  FARMER’S WIFE

  Don’t be ridiculous, Herr Colonel.

  While still holding the French woman’s hand and looking into her eyes, the S.S. colonel says:

  COL. LANDA

  Monsieur LaPadite, the rumors I have heard in the village about your family are all true. Your wife is a beautiful woman.

  His eyes leave the mother and move to the three daughters.

  COL. LANDA

  (CON’T)

  And each of your daughters is more lovely than the last.

  PERRIER

  Merci. Please have a seat.

  The farmer offers the S.S. colonel a seat at the family’s wooden dinner table. The Nazi officer accepts the French farmer’s offer and lowers himself into the chair, placing his gray S.S. cap on the table and keeping his black attaché case on the floor by his feet.

  The farmer (perfect host) turns to his wife and says:

  PERRIER

  Charlotte, would you be so good as to get the Colonel some wine?

  COL. LANDA

  Merci beaucoup, Monsieur LaPadite, but no wine. This being a dairy farm, one would be safe in assuming you have milk?

  CHARLOTTE

  Oui.

  COL. LANDA

  Then milk is what I prefer.

  CHARLOTTE

  Very well.

  The mother of three takes a carafe of milk out of the icebox and pours a tall glass of the fresh white liquid for the colonel.

  The S.S. colonel takes a long drink from the glass, then puts it down LOUDLY on the wooden table.

  COL. LANDA

  Monsieur, to both your family and your cows I say: Bravo.

  PERRIER

  Merci.

  COL. LANDA

  Please, join me at your table.

  PERRIER

  Very well.

  The French farmer sits at his wooden dinner table across from the Nazi.

  The women remain standing.

  Col. Landa leans forward and says to the farmer in a low tone of confidentiality:

  COL. LANDA

  Monsieur LaPadite, what we have to discuss would be better discussed in private. You’ll notice, I left my men outdoors. If it wouldn’t offend them, could you ask your lovely ladies to step outside?

  PERRIER

  You are right.

  PERRIER

  (to his women)

  Charlotte, would you take the girls outside. The Colonel and I need to have a few words.

  The farmer’s wife follows her husband’s orders and gathers her daughters, taking them outside, closing the door behind them.

  The two men are alone at the farmer’s dinner table, in the farmer’s humble home.

  COL. LANDA

  Monsieur LaPadite, I regret to inform you I’ve exhausted the extent of my French. To continue to speak it so inadequately would only serve to embarrass me. However, I’ve been led to believe you speak English quite well?


  PERRIER

  Oui.

  COL. LANDA

  Well, it just so happens, I do as well. This being your house, I ask your permission to switch to English for the remainder of the conversation.

  PERRIER

  By all means.

  They now speak ENGLISH:

  COL. LANDA

  Monsieur LaPadite, while I’m very familiar with you and your family, I have no way of knowing if you are familiar with who I am. Are you aware of my existence?

  The farmer answers:

  PERRIER

  Yes.

  COL. LANDA

  This is good. Are you aware of the job I’ve been ordered to carry out in France?

  PERRIER

  Yes.

  The colonel drinks more milk.

  COL. LANDA

  Please tell me what you’ve heard?

  PERRIER

  I’ve heard the Führer has put you in charge of rounding up the Jews left in France who are either hiding or passing for gentile.