ARTICLE – FILM REVIEW
Django Unchained (2012)
Directed by Quentin Tarantino | Written by Quentin Tarantino
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with cinema. Not just “likes to watch movies on the weekend” obsessed—but “will absolutely derail a conversation to argue the finer points of Kurosawa versus Leone” obsessed. From Japanese monster movies stomping through model cities to dusty Westerns that dominated Saturday afternoon TV, I’ve devoured it all. Why? Honestly, I still don’t know. Maybe it’s the storytelling. Maybe it’s the escape. Or maybe it’s just the fact that movie theaters had better air conditioning than my childhood home. Either way, here I am—still watching, still hoping for that rare moment when a film actually gets it right.
Over the past few decades, that’s become increasingly rare. The storytelling craft has largely been buried under a heap of CGI, soulless reboots, and scripts that seem to be written by algorithms. And yet, every so often, a filmmaker dares to remember why we fell in love with cinema in the first place. In 2012, that filmmaker was Quentin Tarantino. The film? Django Unchained.
Tarantino has always been a stylistic chameleon with a gift for turning genre tropes into modern mythology. But Django Unchained felt different. Yes, it still bore the director’s signature trademarks—snappy dialogue, cartoonish bloodbaths, and a casual disregard for linear storytelling—but this time, the zany energy was grounded in something more substantial: history. Specifically, American history. And even more specifically, the part of American history most directors wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot boom mic: slavery.
Tarantino took a spaghetti western—a genre known for cynical, morally ambiguous gunslingers—and layered it with an unflinching look at slavery. The result? A film that is equal parts revenge fantasy, dark comedy, historical commentary, and brutal social satire. Somehow, impossibly, it works.
A Tribute Wrapped in Gunpowder and Grit
Let’s start with the genre. Django Unchained is a spaghetti western at its core—right down to the title, borrowed from Sergio Corbucci’s Django (1966), and the cameo by the original Django himself, Franco Nero. In true western fashion, we get everything we came for: the hero, the villain, the sidekick, the girl, and lots of gunfights. But Tarantino, being Tarantino, flips the archetypes. Our gunslinger is a former slave. The damsel in distress isn’t just decoration—she’s the reason for everything. And the villains? Oh, they’re villains with a capital “V.”
Casting Jamie Foxx as Django was inspired. He brings a quiet rage, a stoic presence, and just enough wit to make you root for him without turning him into a superhero. Christoph Waltz’s Dr. King Schultz—German dentist turned bounty hunter—is easily one of Tarantino’s most compelling characters. Waltz glides through every scene like he’s playing chess while everyone else is still figuring out checkers. His performance earned him the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, and deservedly so. Schultz is morally conflicted, intellectually superior, and emotionally sincere. He doesn’t just free Django—he treats him like a person in a world that refuses to.
And then there’s Leonardo DiCaprio as Calvin Candie, the plantation owner whose charm is as toxic as his politics. DiCaprio dives into the role with unsettling glee, chewing the scenery and somehow making it believable that someone could sip brandy in a parlor and casually discuss mandingo fighting. He’s grotesque, elegant, and deeply insecure—a man surrounded by yes-men and utterly terrified of being exposed as the buffoon he is.
But the real show-stealer? Samuel L. Jackson as Stephen, Candie’s loyal house slave. We’re used to Jackson being the alpha—yelling, swaggering, taking no nonsense. Here, he bows, shuffles, and plays subservient—until he gets Candie alone, and suddenly he’s the puppet master. It’s a chilling performance. Jackson makes Stephen one of the most complex, infuriating characters in Tarantino’s entire filmography.
Blood, Sound, and a Whole Lot of Style
Let’s address the blood. This is a Tarantino film. Of course there’s blood. But in Django, it’s stylized to the point of absurdity—so over-the-top it becomes theatrical. The film practically paints with it. That final shootout? It’s as if someone handed Jackson Pollock a shotgun.
Sound design? Surprisingly excellent. The gunfire has texture—each caliber has a unique punch. You can practically feel the weight of the weapons. Even the smaller moments land—like Schultz scraping foam off beer mugs. It’s oddly satisfying, like ASMR for Tarantino fans.
Lighting? Tarantino keeps things unusually bright. Most Westerns lean into harsh shadows and silhouettes. Here, everything is illuminated—even the horrors. Especially the horrors. One scene that stands out: Django hanging upside down in the barn. Even then, the frame is clear. Tarantino isn’t hiding anything. He’s saying, Look at it. All of it. This is what it was.
He could’ve exploited violence and trauma for shock value, but instead, there’s intention. Even in the whipping scenes, you never actually see the whip land on Broomhilda. You hear it. You feel it. But Tarantino avoids gratuitous spectacle. The violence serves a purpose, not just bloodlust.
A Word on Editing and Tone
The pacing is deliberate. The film unfolds in chapters, guiding the viewer exactly where Tarantino wants them. It builds, lulls, explodes. And while the tone can shift jarringly—from humor to horror and back again—it somehow holds together. Like a rickety stagecoach that’s falling apart but still gets you to the final showdown.
Tarantino doesn’t pretend to be subtle. He makes bold, messy, provocative choices. Django Unchained is not a history lesson—it’s a revenge fantasy. But it’s a revenge fantasy with something to say. And sometimes, that’s more powerful than a documentary.
Final Thoughts
In watching Django Unchained, I was reminded of what movies can be. They can entertain and disturb. They can make you laugh, cringe, cheer, and reflect—sometimes all in the same scene. This film is many things: a spaghetti western, a buddy movie, a commentary on race, a blood-soaked opera. It’s flawed, bold, and utterly unforgettable.
And after watching Plan 9 from Outer Space—bless its confused, alien heart—I can confidently say that budget doesn’t make the film. Vision does. Acting helps. Writing matters. And when it all comes together under a director like Tarantino, we’re reminded that cinema is still very much alive.
If you haven’t seen Django Unchained, do yourself a favor: watch it. And if you have seen it? Watch it again. There’s more going on than you probably noticed the first time.