Salvatore Scibona’s recently released debut novel, The End, is a tale of identity, belonging and a whole lot of longing in an American immigrant community in the first half of the twentieth century. The reader signs on for a strange and tragic DeLorean ride traversing time, and occasionally continents, to worlds that surely would have scared or at least depressed the hell out of Marty McFly.
No, Basterds is not a Schindler’s List, a Thin Red Line, or a Casablanca. But we don’t need any more war movies like that. The emotional core, more tangible than in any of Tarantino’s other films, builds from and questions every single war movie that’s ever been made.