Me and Quentin Tarantino have had a tricky relationship, see. I want to like his stuff. I really do. I remember how good those first two were, and if he'd spent the next part of career trying to re-capture that magic, I might have been more sympathetic. But no: Quentin decided to disappear up his own arse, and make films that interested him and him alone. Hey, how cool are samurai movies, huh? Aren't grimy explotation movies, like, awesome? What if I made a movie where a bunch of dudes killed Hitler? Wouldn't that be totally out there? The problem is, Quentin Tarantino has proved to be such an obnoxious bellend in person that his worst films are like being stuck in a room with him for two hours, as he splutters about his latest theory that Batman is a metaphor for the industrial revolution or something. He forgot there were other people listening, and became obsessed with the sound of his own voice.
I'm not saying that's all changed. But in 2012, he made Django Unchained. As a film, it was a little bloated (read: too fucking long) and had a few other, recurring problems (enough with the cameos), but it was mostly entertaining, filled with great performances, and said some interesting things about slave narratives. In the same vein, The Hateful Eight - while far from a masterpiece - is the first film of his in a long time that I'd say, without any kind of qualifying statement, I liked.
Actually, that's not true. There's a few things wrong with it. It is self-indulgent - the entire cinema cringed in unison when "The 8th Film from Quentin Tarantino" came up - and it's far too long. But I was surprised to admit that what I thought would annoy me ended up doing the exact opposite. Both an overture and an intermission could be unnecessary, but Tarantino makes full use of them to draw you into his atmospheric and strangely mature story. The former, in particular, sets the mood brilliantly, making full use of Ennio Morricone's "ghetto" score to amp up the dread. We're in a desolate Wyoming, somewhere between The Searchers and The Thing, where DEATH might as well be spelled out in 50-foot-high letters - there's one great shot of a stone statue of Jesus Christ, atop a crucifix, in a spasm of pain, and the camera stays there for a hauntingly long period of time.
The film follows John "Hangman" Ruth (Kurt Russell), who's captured notorious outlaw Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and is determined to collect her $10,000 bounty. Standing in his way are six others - Marquis Warren (Samuel L. Jackson), a former Union soldier and suspected war criminal; Chris Mannix (Walton Goggins), a somewhat demented sheriff-to-be; Bob (Demián Bichir), not characterised much beyond being Mexican; Oswald Mobray (Tim Roth), a posh British hangman; Joe Gage (Michael Madsen), a shifty-looking cowboy; and Sanford Smithers (Bruce Dern), a cranky ex-Confederate general - all of whom form a group of eight not-particularly-pleasant-people (gosh, I wish there was a better way to say that). They're all forced to hole up together in a bar when a blizzard comes along, and when it becomes clear that someone's working to free Daisy from the Hangman's clutches, the entire thing turns into an Agatha Christie story - albeit one with way more exploding heads, obvs.
Considering this film goes on for three hours - THREE HOURS - you'd expect the pace to sag. But actually, it all feels quite well-managed. Tarantino creates some actual characters this time to befit his incredible cast, and they build up a crackling rhythm between them as the film gets going. Jennifer Jason Leigh is very impressive as the film's sole female element, giving a powerful, empathetic presence to someone having to contend with a room full of gravely-voiced boys; and Samuel L. Jackson is on ripe, charismatic form as Warren, the kind of role that made him famous in the first place. But it's Walton Goggins who makes the strangest, funniest, strongest impression as Mannix - hardly surprising, considering he was quietly brilliant on Justified for about six years, so here's hoping he'll become the film's breakout star.
What works is that none of the characters are idealised, they're all equally horrible, all representing some nasty facet of 18th Century (or maybe, if you're feeling generous, 21st Century) society. And dare I say that this film actually says something rather interesting in its violence? While the majority of the story is focused on trying to work out who's-doing-what-and-why, in sensational and dialogue-heavy fashion, there's a rich vein of absurdity hanging over the story, as well as some angry political provocations. We're in the shadow of the Civil War, the memory of its horrors giving us a dissonant moral vacuum where Hate, however irrational, prevails. And for what? Is there even a reason for all this to be happening? There's a constant reappearance of a letter from Abraham Lincoln, which is later revealed to be forged. It's like the film in microcosm - lies to disguise, to trick, to kill, all for nothing. Sure, it's no Fargo, no Wild Bunch. But it's the best film Tarantino has made in years. So there.
★★★★
