Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds’ opening shot perches a small house in the left corner of the frame, balances it out with a large tree to the right, and animates it with cows in the distance along with a man chopping wood. After lingering on this shot for a few chops of the axe, the number 1941 fades into the center-bottom of the frame. Thus far the sonic experience of the movie has been limited to the faint sound of the breeze, birds, and clinks of the axe. The following shot is marked by a loud hack of the axe. Tarantino begins the shot zoomed in on a stump and zooms out to focus on Monsieur LaPadite chopping away. LaPadite is wearing a white shirt soaked in sweat, suspenders, ordinary brown boots, and a pair of dark green pants. The next shot jumps to a woman hanging sheets and clothes on a drying rack made of wood and wire. At this point Tarantino has amplified the sound of the axe hitting the wood, the wind slicing through the hills, and the birds’ haphazard symphony. The shot is mostly comprised of the woman, standing to the left with socks above her head, and a large white sheet hanging to her right. She is wearing a conservative summer dress, ribboned in the middle and lofty in the wind. After a few seconds of stillness in the shot the woman reaches for the corner of the white sheet, pulling it back and revealing the windy road lying beyond. Up until this point Tarantino has limited the scene to a purely diagetic soundtrack. As the woman moves the sheet Tarantino pulls a non-diagetic ballad into full force, blasting an ominous tune. After receiving a trough of water from his daughter, LaPadite washes his face and chest with a stern look on his face. After washing his face the shot moves, focusing on two military motorcycles and an odd, long, military vehicle fit for four. There are four men in total, all wearing army garb distinguishing their rank. A man gets out of the back seat of the car and makes his way to LaPadite. The man introduces himself as Colonel Hans Landa of the SS. At this point there is nothing but the diagetic sound of their voices, the faint sound of birds, and the dwindling breeze.
© 2014 Aaron Slater
