Judging from this review of Quentin Tarantino's newest film, "Inglorious Basterds," it look like the Big Q is up to his old tricks. Blood, guns, and...more blood. He does one thing and does it well, thank you very much.
It seems like his films are getting progressively more and more gory. Or should I say "gorier and gorier"? No, that sounds like a British law firm. Anyway, I'm wondering--where will it end?
In that spirit, I give you a prospective script for Quentin Tarantino's next film, tentatively titled SPLAT. Edits imposed for the sake of good taste!
(Several stylishly dressed men walk into an empty room. There is no furniture. The walls are blank and white. The men all wear sunglasses; each carries a gun roughly the size of a bazooka.)
Man #1: F***!
Man #2: F***!
Man #7: Oh, F***!
(Man #3 shoots Man #2. His brains splatter all over the wall)
Man #4: F***!
Man #1: What the F***?
(Man #5 shoots Man #1 and Man #6; the camera zooms in as Man #6's jaw explodes into fragments like confetti)
Man #3: Seriously? F***!
Man #7: F*** me! F*** it all!
(Man #3 pulls out a katana and skewers Man #5, causing his entrails to burst through his back and uncoil on the floor; he writhes in pain)
Man #5: F*******************************************************!!!
Man #8: That's F******!
Man #3: No s***! I mean, no f***!
(Man #7 grabs Man #3 and Man #9 and bashes their heads together, until their craniums burst into a pinkish mist of blood and brains)
Man #7: F***! F***! Oh, f***!
Man #8: F*** no!
(Man #8 grabs a tire iron from the ground and beats Man #7 into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp; this scene is filmed in extreme slow motion, lasting nearly 15 minutes)
Man #8: F***. F***. F***. I'm so f*****. Dang it all to heck.
(Man #8 explodes for no good reason)
THE END
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