Quentin Tarantino has a strange formula for making movies. Most have a low production value, outrageous storylines, the stereotypical yellow text and stunts that will put Rajnikanth to shame. Hardly the perfect formula. Yet his quirky dialogues and certain romanticism in the way he portrays death in his movies have made this once-upon-a-time-movie-rental-guy into a cult God.

Imagine the scene from Inglourious Basterds where the Nazi general walks to his impending death at the hands of a baseball bat. A slow slightly romantic song plays in the background as the subject moves forward the fear clearly visible in his eyes. Yet you don’t feel sorry for him as you normally would. There is something about the essence of the scene that captivates you. A slow grin creeps across your face as the inner serial killer in you stirs. You know bloodshed is coming and you want it.

We are after all talking about the man who had the audacity to kill Hitler. No wait… Make that mutilate—shoot, burn and then blow up Hitler. Just to be sure.