Django’s first act in Django Unchained is to be saved by someone else. For a hero, that’s a rough foundation. Schultz gives him his first beer, after which Django watches his new benefactor murder an authority figure without any fear of impunity. At this point, Django is still a mere observer. But the key to Django - the thing that makes him a character with such a powerful arc - lay in the way he absorbs absolutely everything he sees and almost instantly adapts it according to his own idiom in service of his own agency. Schultz needs him to identify the three Brittle brothers. That’s it. Having seen how Schultz’s status as a bounty hunter shields him from the legal ramification of murdering wanted outlaws, Django does not hesitate to murder two of the Brittle’s himself in full view of everyone on the plantation (he even invites an audience of slaves to watch). The law is on Django’s side. He knows it and doesn’t back down from pushing that as far as possible. He does this the whole movie. He pushes Schultz. He pushes Candie. He pushes Candie’s henchmen and even his slaves.
As Django Unchained progresses, two things come into focus. First, Django and Schultz’s relationship shows elements of a mentor/student situation - and Schultz may even see it like that, patting himself on the back for every favor he pays Django - but it’s really more a matter of two equals working together to their mutual benefit. Second, ‘equals’ might be pushing it. The more Schultz speaks, the more we realize how calculated and precise Django’s few utterances are. Schultz, with his grand showmanship, ultimately presents the greatest danger to Django’s mission to save Broomhilda. Remember, there could be a version of this story in which Schultz pays top dollar for Broomhilda and the whole crew leaves Candie’s plantation, bruised but alive. Instead, a petulant Schultz throws away everything - his, Broomhilda, and Django’s life for all he knows - for the immature pleasure of shooting Candie.
It’s a shocking moment, not the kind of narrative left turn most films would even consider. But Tarantino knows what he’s doing. With Schultz suddenly out of the picture, Django finds himself surrounded by a sizable staff of Southern plantation workers who have been itching to kill him since he arrogantly arrived dressed to the nines and riding a horse. He could not possibly be in a worse spot. Here we finally see the Django Tarantino has been saving for us - not the poor fellow in a tight spot but the all-out superhero doling out the vindictive wrath befitting an entire culture of dehumanization and cruelty.
This is where Tarantino’s pulpy coolness comes into play. As Django battles his way through Candie’s staff, bullets do not adhere to the laws of reality. They hit bodies like cannons, blowing huge blood geysers into their victims, some of whom get knocked across whole rooms by their force. Django survives one big gun battle, leaves a prisoner, uses his wits to get free, comes back, and finishes the job once and for all, not leaving until Candie’s mansion has been reduced to ash. He’s unstoppable and unflappable, a killing machine with a killer sense of style. Yeah, he just blew up a massive plantation in the middle of Mississippi, but he still has time to make his horse bow to his lady.
Django’s heroics supply the culmination of an epic journey from slave to icon, an unprecedented arc from Tarantino. Schultz, while a great character to be sure, is merely a part of Django’s superhero origin story. Just as Candie - our marquee villain - displays antagonism that lacks the wit and guile of his faux-humble servant, Stephen, Shultz’s charisma and volume hides the fact that he is merely the facilitator of Django’s ascension.
