A flame that sparked from a fire.

You woke me up, fire, flames, Nazi's and a burning Jew.
Haunting the likes of Hitler and his army of worshipers.
Tarantino you made us uncomfortable with your choice of topic. Guilty for laughing as blood flowed from every orifice. You made us cringe. You made our insides sour. Quentin Tarantino you took pain of an era and practiced your panache of deconstructing calamity. Turned it on its backside and while you took your carefully crafted, best film school degree shot at it, I wonder if you chose ignorance or bravery. Success either way with a skilled knack for making guts worn on the outside, a sought after sight. T shiny cast, the budget, the returns, the Hollywood glamor of it; you set out to conquer. The beauty of your Film Noir lighting laced with the lethality of carnage and sprinkled with the larger then life Nazi, your carefully contrived brazen indulgence.
But alas I'm left agitated; Churning unrest within me. Agitated by a choice of mastering the grotesque. It doesn't sit well. What would my Jewish neighbors think? Are they wounded by the drudging up of the third Reich by a Hollywood all-star?

It could be said that all this questioning is the sign of great art. Thinking and imagining in a new way. Query, examine and pick apart the ugly pieces? Quentin himself would probably relish in this process. Polishing mayhem into a unique gem, shaped by equal parts of curiosity and disapproval.
Overwhelmed with a dichotomy of morals, a jarring combination that leaves many questions, deep...

Nonetheless the flames of Tarantino have just started an artistic fire and while his subject matter may not have been perfect, the art was; The creation, the spark, the very flame, serves as evidence.