Movie Review: The Hateful Eight
Quentin Tarantino can do whatever he wants. At this point in his career, twenty-two years removed from the pop-culture milestone Pulp Fiction (1994), the lowbrow aficionado has dabbled in everything from Kung Fu (Kill Bill, Vol. 1 & 2 [2003/04]) and Blaxploitation (Jackie Brown [1997]) to world war (Inglorious Basterds [2009]) and revisionist westerns (Django Unchained [2012]). Each crucially dependent on their assigned genres, but unmistakably stamped by an artist who loves to screw with the status quo. No other filmmaker can channel the sophistication of Jean-Luc Godard and the violence of John Woo through the veil of a 1970s exploitation flick – much less attempt to in a coherent state of mind. But 
this is where the Oscar nominated Tarantino resides full time: right on the edge of cinematic sanity.
Proudly marketed as the director’s eighth film, The Hateful Eight is another high-tension affair; punctuated by a script you could bounce a bullet off of. Racial slurs, witty one-liners, and monumentally bizarre monologues are fired at such a high intensity they practically shield from the bitter winter setting that’s trapped our eight main characters. A setting, ironically, that bypasses its western period and sets focus on a surprisingly appropriate influence: 1982’s horror classic The Thing. Borrowing key components like actor Kurt Russell and the film’s throbbing musical cues, Tarantino channels much of John Carpenter’s unshakeable paranoia to spectacular results. In this regard, The Hateful Eight, though window dressed as a western, slides by as the director’s sly take on the horror genre.
Sly may be an ironic word to use when discussing such an apologetically brutal blood bath. This is Quentin Tarantino we’re talking about, after all. The cast, filled to the brim with vets like Russell, Samuel L. Jackson, and Bruce Dern, as well as Tarantino regulars Michael Madsen and Tim Roth, is triumphantly over the top in perfectly tailored parts; from Russell’s sauntering John Wayne sendup to Walton Goggins’ stir crazy sheriff. Topped off with an Oscar nominated Jennifer Jason Leigh as slobbering shrew Daisy Domergue, each actor has a (literal) blast inhabiting their director’s singular vision. It’s not exactly Hamlet, but if Jackson’s soliloquy to white bounty hunters isn’t A+ acting, the grading scale might be broken.
I’ve avoided discussing the plot thus far, not because of its unimportance, but rather because mystery is so crucial to the viewing experience. As one to typically spell things out for his audience, Tarantino takes the Agatha Christie route on this one, implanting clues and taunting narration to assure all is not how it seems. Which is a fun bonus to be had, on top of the usual cocktail of poetic nonsense and over-the-top shootouts – it may be predictable, but the way bullets explode in a Tarantino film never gets old. The eventual plot twist is more Reservoir Dogs (1992) than Murder On The Orient Express (1974), but that’s not to imply there’s no fun to be had on the way there; especially with a glorious 70 mm print that’s well worth the price of admission.
The Hateful Eight is another excellent addition to the Tarantino oeuvre, a stock-in-trade style fest that will satisfy hardcore fans and repulse uptight opposers. It won’t go down as the prize cup in the director’s coffee collection, but seeing Bruce Dern and Sam Jackson duke it out for Civil War bragging rights is enough to make any adventurous movie fan sit up and request refills.
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