Tarantino’s supposed last film before his self proclaimed alluring retirement is the most terrible piece of meandering nonsense ever crafted by the world renowned Director.
It is an almost certainty that The Hateful Eight will NOT be Tarantino’s last film because it is such a vicious wreak of film stock that for Tarantino to leave the film industry on such a resounding sour note is a travesty.
The first hour of HATEFUL is an endless, staggering diatribe of cliched dialogue. Tarantino is mimicking himself as a student film maker parodying Tarantino.
Wincing quirky dialogue, crippled camera moves and limping motivation.
In fact I had to pause HATEFUL because it was so bad and question my resolve, I wasn’t certain I could finish watching it without the benefit of sitting in a cheap drive in with a sexed up date waiting for me to suck the popcorn out of her mouth as a distraction.
How I wished I had listened to my inner voice to kill HATEFUL before it killed me.
If only I was in an old Ford Fairline with a bench seat at a GRINDHOUSE drive in, with a disheveled girl to distract me, because that is where HATEFUL should be limited to showings.
Suddenly Tarantino decides to crank up a ridiculous temp VO to unnecessarily prove the obvious inadequacy of HATEFUL to either entertain or create any interest other than watching the failure of a once great film maker, and to reach new heights in making actors look old western ugly. Because believe me, everyone in this movie is UGLY as god damn hell of fire after being pissed on by the devil, and that is not a compliment to the authenticity of HATEFUL.
The film is set like a poor mans stage in a wilderness Inn, in a freezing snow storm, in the mountains, surrounded by an outhouse and a barn. Yet with impossible over head lights shining down on the propped up, exaggerated old west characters that completely blows out any reality the film attempts to create. We are trapped with HATEFUL’S ugly beaten down cast and none of us will get out alive.
I will not recount the cast of HATEFUL out of respect for the dead.
HATEFUL’S agonizing 2 hours and 47 minutes run time, threatens your very soul and the foundation of film making history with a relentless descent into a dismal portrayal of the west by a director who has lost all sense of style and decorum. If this is Tarantino’s swan song then it’s an Aria belted out by a cheap drunk whore in a fake saloon on the edge of a cliff while she shoots up heroin waiting for a mule to kick her over the edge while wearing a roadkill necklace.
The pinnacle of ludicrous arrives with Jackson spits out a juvenile account of torturing a man’s son and forcing the man to perform fellatio on him. Tarantino has Jackson recount the tale over and over until the script becomes a disgusting, slimy, parody of itself and debases itself to the level of most porn movies.
As the 2 hour mark arrived I was forced to take various breaks. To cleanse my mind of the insideous filth of HATEFUL.
The final revealing chapter is nothing but more bullets and blood. With little rhyme or reason other than to watch an exaggerated display of bad dialogue and bad reasons to write bad dialogue.
Suddenly out from beneath the floorboards pops Tatum’s slick head. He’s been hiding under the Saloon the entire time waiting to shoot off Jackson’s testicles. And I must say I appreciated that after his lengthy monologue on fellatio.
After 2 hours of draining, exhausting trails of exposition leading to nothing. HATEFUL climax like any other porn with hers getting blown off. Pints of blood spews and paints the floors and walls. Pieces of bone and organs scatter over the Saloon like the script must have been cut up and spit out. Nothing can clean up that mess because parts of it stay in your mind filed up ugly and bad.
I could go on about all of HATEFUL’S most HATED moments but I refuse to let this travesty in Tarantino’s life do any more damage to both him and you.
If you value your life and the past accomplishments of Tarantino. Do yourself a favor and pretend HATEFUL does NOT exist. For in truth other than as a display of bizarre, and terrible filth that will possibly stain a good directors list of rather brilliant films, it doesn’t.