It all started about a year before Inglorious Basterds was released by Mr Tarantino. A particular recurring dream: It is the Second World War. There I am sitting at a long scarred wooden table in what I can only assume is either a large French or Flemish rural kitchen in a farmhouse, that has decoration that reflects the purpose of this home: old pitch forks and scythes adorn one wall. A simple meal of what looks like chicken casserole with bread is set to be served up, and a dozen places have been set. I sit at the table, the owner of the farm, my husband already dead.
Soon a group of Nazi officers come waltzing into the kitchen and I stand up, ready to serve the food on the table. The Nazi officers then salute in Hitler as he walks into the humble kitchen and they only sit down after Hitler has sat.
It doesn’t take me long to serve the meal, but before I sit at my own place, the farming implements on the wall catch my eye. Without thinking, I grab a pitchfork off the wall, jump onto the table and hurl myself at Hitler as I thrust the pitchfork into him. He dies and I wake up.
So, when you have a dream like that and it keeps recurring… it’s unlikely that you’re a fascist.