Martin's praise for Quentin Tarantino's films and talent wasn't just polite lip service.
The guy who loved to linger on shots of women's feet was undeniably gifted.
In Martin's eyes, Quentin might not quite reach the level of a master, but he was a cinematic genius. His knack for nonlinear storytelling, unforgettable dialogue, and blood-soaked scenes elevated the gritty, violent style of American B-movies to new heights.
Quentin's films were never perfect—they came with sharp edges, littered with bugs and logical gaps that piled up like a chaotic stack of cards. Yet somehow, they gave off an exhilarating, larger-than-life vibe.
That high, that rush, was exactly what made film buffs feel a thrill and lightness they'd never experienced before.
Especially Quentin's stylized violence—those scenes were catnip for cult film fans, impossible to look away from.
His signature move? One second, everything's calm and serene; the next, rivers of blood. The jarring contrast flooded viewers' brains with dopamine.
No matter how brutal the journey, his stories always ended with the hero getting revenge, winning the girl, and riding off into the sunset, laced with the idealism and romanticism of classic Westerns.
Another hallmark: Quentin didn't like linear narratives. He always played with structure, weaving stories in unexpected ways.
As John Ford once said, "A story needs a beginning, middle, and end, but not necessarily in that order."
Quentin lived that mantra in his films.
Inglourious Basterds was a quintessential Quentin work.
Yet it was also an outlier.
For once, Quentin told a story straight—well, as straight as he ever did.
Of course, it still had his usual ingredients: assassinations, shootouts, revenge plots, ambition clashing with betrayal, characters taking the stage one after another, and the lingering question—who's this all for in the end?
Once again, he poured his chaotic, anarchic, violent imagination into his work.
This time, even Adolf Hitler caught a stray bullet, casually sent to hell by a Jewish woman.
If Kill Bill was a wild, East-meets-West violence-fest, Inglourious Basterds seemed to say no one escapes the chaos of hatred unscathed.
The film's ending gleefully shattered historical truth, leaving you unsure whether to laugh or cry. The Allies' meticulous assassination plan inexplicably fails, the main villain abruptly switches sides, a regular Jewish woman's brutal revenge succeeds, Nazi leaders are easily outwitted and gunned down by a woman, Hitler dies in pathetic disgrace, and a defecting German colonel is carved with a permanent Nazi mark.
What Martin found most amusing was how, despite leaning into World War II movie tropes to paint some German officers as vile, Quentin spent more ink crafting a positive image for others—especially Colonel Hans Landa.
Hans was almost heroic: sharp, elegant, carrying a sense of historical duty, operating on a higher moral plane.
By contrast, the Americans in the film were dirty, bloodthirsty, barbaric, and deceitful, with no redeeming qualities. Strip away their anti-Nazi stance, and they were almost entirely negative figures.
In the darkened theater, Martin couldn't help but smirk. No wonder people called Quentin a genius—he was so damn audacious.
He kept just a sliver of historical grounding, then flipped the moral archetypes of both sides, creating a cast of wildly compelling characters. It was pure, mischievous brilliance.
Genius? Hell, only the devil knew what was going on in his head.
After the screening, Martin congratulated Quentin.
"Buddy, this one's gonna do numbers at the box office, I'm telling you," Martin said, planting the flag.
Truthfully, Quentin had little reason to worry about his film's performance. His distinct style had already carved out a loyal niche fanbase, guaranteeing a baseline of $50 million at the box office. Pull in a few extra fans, and the investment would pay off.
That's why Quentin was always so confident in his films.
But this time was different. Inglourious Basterds had a budget of $75 million—the highest of his career. Add in marketing and distribution, and the total cost topped $90 million.
And Martin's Joker was a juggernaut, gobbling up box office share with a ferocity that felt like it could swallow every other film in its path. Even a madman like Quentin couldn't help but feel the pressure.
Still, now that the film was out, he seemed to relax. Win or lose, it was what it was.
"Thank you, Martin," Quentin said with a wry smile.
The first weekend's four days passed.
The mood in Globe Entertainment's conference room was tense.
The distribution head, Karl Steinbach, tapped his fingers on the table, a report on Inglourious Basterds' opening weekend box office sitting in front of him.
"Opening weekend brought in $22.62 million. Looks like Inglourious Basterds won't lose money—it's just a question of how much profit."
Honestly, this was better than they'd feared. When Joker first hit theaters, it scared them senseless, seeming to suck up all the box office potential.
Given the investment, the numbers were solid. Hitting $120 million in North America and $300 million globally shouldn't be an issue.
"Are we still pushing the plan to suppress Joker?" the publicity head asked the female vice president at the head of the table.
She frowned, mulling it over. "Forget it. Using the shooting to fuel negative press on Joker backfired—it just gave their film more buzz."
Her tone carried a trace of resentment. Globe had hoped to capitalize on the shooting to tank Joker's box office, but they'd botched it, inadvertently boosting its numbers instead.
They'd spent their own money advertising their rival's film. It stung.
After attending Inglourious Basterds' premiere, Joker began its European rollout, and Martin embarked on his promotional tour.
Mimi Yang and Emma Watson showed up together to pick him up.
After wrapping Inception, she'd lingered in Los Angeles for a while before jetting off to London to visit her "bestie," Emma Watson.
Since Martin was coming to London for promo, she tagged along with Emma to meet him at the airport.