Leave it to Quentin Tarantino to find a way to bring World War Two to its close in half the time that the history books record. That’s ultimately what Inglourious Basterds boils down to, and your reaction to that conceit will determine much about your feelings about the film.

There’s no denying it’s well made, a sleek beast with some pitch perfect scenes executed with a panache that can’t help but make you smile. Tarantino shows a particular gift for eeking out the maximum tension from scenes, whether it’s a farmer sheltering Jewish neighbours visited by an SS commander sniffing them out, or a group of American soldiers disguised as Germans and wanting out of a lingering conversation with a legitimate Nazi. No doubt about it: Tarantino knows how to make audiences squirm.

But he does that in other senses too. Making mention of Mexican stand-offs is, Quentin knows full well, going to remind viewers of his previous films. Like anyone goes into a cinema without knowing that QT directed Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction. It’s a touch of cheese that leaves a bad taste, as does the self-congratulatory last line of the film — both evidence to me that Tarantino is in need of an editor, perhaps Roger Avary, who was involved with QT’s early career and then written out of his filmography.

Which bit of historical revisionism brings us back to Inglourious Basterds, in which a group of American Jewish soldiers run riot in Vichy France, scalping Nazis to put fear into the hearts of the Reich. Pure hokum, and nothing wrong with a bit of that, is there? Probably not, and in that sense Inglourious Basterds resembles its film-within-a-film, wherein a Nazi sharpshooter picks off hundreds of Allied troops from atop a belltower.

That bit of jollity is premiered at a Paris cinema where every Nazi of note turns up, a bit of bad diary planning that some PA would get a serious telling-off for if I was running a bloodthirsty army ruled by charismatic despots. But that sort of criticism isn’t fair, when Quent is intent on giving us such a good time, and often succeeds. There’s plenty to be admired, after all, but how much of it comes from QT himself and how much from films he’s tipping his hat to, I couldn’t tell you. It may be unfair that such thoughts come to mind re: QT when they don’t for other filmmakers, but then QT has made a point of saying that he’s not like other filmmakers — there’s an extent to which Quent is trapped by the brand he has created.

Ultimately, this is meagre fare — adolescent fantasy delivered with quality actors and visual flair. And that’s a shame — there was another Tarantino glimpsed in Jackie Brown, his most mature film yet, and one which his subsequent films have departed from to leave not very much of substance in their wake. Knowing that he’s capable of more, the fact that he continues to content himself with such flimsy stuff is a disappointment.

So, enjoy Inglourious Basterds for what it offers. You’ll find fun dialogue, good set pieces, effective use of music, and some quality actors enjoying themselves, and that’s more than you’ll be served up by many filmmakers. Oh, and there’s the inevitable foot-fetishing scenes, about which you can make your own mind up. But I’d hate to think that the extent of Tarantino’s talent is Boys’ Own yarns, and it’d be nice to think that the writer-director will face up to that fact and produce something of enduring quality, and not just low-calorie eye candy. This is definitely a case of me being snarkily critical because I believe QT is capable of so much more.