Oh, revenge. I've been thinking a lot about you lately. How do you square up with someone who has wronged you? Do you deliver an exact amount, eye-for-an-eye style? What if that's impossible, then what? What do you do, huh? And what about those people who take the high road and don't seek revenge at all? Those amazing bastards have always baffled me, honestly. Maybe the feeling of getting even doesn't actually feel good, and provides no real pleasure. Maybe exacting revenge is joyless, but watching someone get theirs? Well, that shit's gold.
Admittedly late to the party, I had a real good time with Django Unchained. Skipped theatrically due to its epic runtime and holiday release (an unfortunate combo for a family man), I jumped at the chance to rent it. In fact, I actually considered purchasing the blu ray, but ownership removes any immediacy from actually viewing it. That nasty buck and a half redbox late fee is just enough of a kick in the balls to motivate the uninitiated. Oh, and this texted threat from my good friend, Haspe [hass-pee].
if you don't watch Django the second it's released I will fly out there and pistol whip you.
See, back in 1994, Haspe and I went to the Hualalai Theaters in Kailua-Kona, Hawai'i and had our minds f--king blown by a little film called Pulp Fiction. This was likely a watershed moment for our appreciation of cinema as the bar had not only been raised, but also smashed over our fragile, little minds. Quentin Tarantino, a director we then knew little about, had shown us the way. There was no going back.
Django Unchained, not that I need to tell you, continues the streak of impossibly cool cinematic spectacles Tarantino has unleashed upon audiences. Set in 1858, Django tells a fairly straightforward tale of bloody revenge, set in a pre-Civil War South. And while I think Kill Bill was (marginally) better in terms of revengey-ness, Django features something that not enough films do: motherf--king Christoph Waltz.
if you don't watch Django the second it's released I will fly out there and pistol whip you.
See, back in 1994, Haspe and I went to the Hualalai Theaters in Kailua-Kona, Hawai'i and had our minds f--king blown by a little film called Pulp Fiction. This was likely a watershed moment for our appreciation of cinema as the bar had not only been raised, but also smashed over our fragile, little minds. Quentin Tarantino, a director we then knew little about, had shown us the way. There was no going back.
Django Unchained, not that I need to tell you, continues the streak of impossibly cool cinematic spectacles Tarantino has unleashed upon audiences. Set in 1858, Django tells a fairly straightforward tale of bloody revenge, set in a pre-Civil War South. And while I think Kill Bill was (marginally) better in terms of revengey-ness, Django features something that not enough films do: motherf--king Christoph Waltz.
