Three stars. Rated R, for strong bloody violence, gore, profanity, graphic nudity and racist behavior
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.31.15
Quentin Tarantino’s best films
are highlighted by deliciously snarky dialog, scene-stealing — and sometimes
career-reviving — performances by delectable character actors, and twisty
scripts that build tension to the screaming point.
 |
| Every time somebody enters Minnie's Haberdashery, those already inside — in this case, John Ruth (Kurt Russell, left), Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and a wincing Sandy Smithers (Bruce Dern) — have to yell for the door to be nailed shut, lest the blizzard blow it open again. |
The Hateful Eight gets two out
of three.
Tarantino’s tough-talkin’ homage
to classic Westerns — complete with an awesome new orchestral score from
87-year-old Ennio Morricone (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly), his first
Western score in 40 years — simply doesn’t have enough story to justify its
butt-numbing 182-minute length. The set-up is rich with potential, and it
screams for the multiple back-story treatment that made Kill Bill so engaging
... but no; aside from two brief flashbacks, we and the cast are stuck in the
same claustrophobic cabin for three interminable hours.
Granted, the actors do their best
to hold our attention. Ultimately, though, the posturing and narrow-eyed ’tude can’t
make up for a script that doesn’t kick into gear until after the intermission
(roughly 100 minutes in).
Tarantino makes us wait much too
long for the good stuff, and by then things are rather anticlimactic.
And yes, I’m fully aware that the
“good stuff” is the enfant terrible filmmaker’s gleeful dollops of blood and
gore. But even here, it feels like Tarantino is only half-trying; having teased
us with a cabin laden with hammers, shovels, iron spikes and all sorts of other
implements of potential mayhem, he settles for gunfire. Which, tasteless as it
sounds, is quite disappointing.
As he did with Kill Bill, Tarantino divides this saga into chapters, starting with “Last Stage to Red
Rock.” The setting is post-Civil War Wyoming, with a six-horse stagecoach doing
its best to outrun an approaching blizzard. The driver is forced to halt after
coming upon former Union soldier-turned-bounty hunter Marquis Warren (Samuel L.
Jackson), perched in the middle of the road atop three of his sanctioned kills.
Warren’s horse has given out on
him; he’s hoping for a lift to Red Rock. But that’s a problem; the stage has
been chartered exclusively by fellow bounty hunter John “The Hangman” Ruth
(Kurt Russell), who is handcuffed to his prisoner, Daisy Domergue (Jennifer
Jason Leigh), and escorting her to a date with the hangman at Red Rock.
The wisely suspicious Ruth views
any strangers as either a) somebody trying to steal his bounty; or b) somebody
trying to rescue Daisy. But it turns out that Warren and Ruth know each other,
if only vaguely; the requested ride is granted, if grudgingly.
They don’t get far before
encountering another traveler on foot, who also claims to have lost his horse:
Chris Mannix (Walton Goggins), a former southern renegade — and proud racist —
who improbably claims to be Red Rock’s newly appointed sheriff. Ruth has no
intention of letting this obvious weasel on board, but is forced to acknowledge
that, in the unlikely event that Mannix is telling the truth, leaving him
behind would be tantamount to murder. In full view of O.B. Jackson (James
Parks), the stagecoach driver.
This uneasy quartet gets as far
as Minnie’s Haberdashery, an unlikely mountain pass stopover, before the
blizzard hits. Ruth drags his prisoner inside, where he encounters three
travelers from an earlier stagecoach, also waiting out the storm: taciturn
cow-puncher Joe Gage (Michael Madsen); Sanford Smithers (Bruce Dern), a sullen
old man still wearing his Confederate general’s uniform; and the hilariously
loquacious and mildly prissy Oswaldo Mobray (Tim Roth), who — imagine that! —
turns out to be the regional hangman.
The Haberdashery is absent its
namesake; as explained by guest proprietor Bob (Demian Bichir), he’s watching the
place while Minnie and her husband are visiting relations.
No surprise: Ruth doesn’t like
this set-up. Not one little bit.
Nor does Warren, whose
calculating gaze touches on every inch of the notions-laden emporium, his eyes
momentarily pausing on a lone jelly bean, wedged between two floorboards.
Glancing up at the candy shelf, he spots what appears to be a gap between two
jars.
(Note to production designer
Yohei Taneda: The aforementioned sweets look less like old-style jelly beans,
and more like modern Jelly Bellies ... which most definitely did not exist in
the mid-19th century.)
Time passes; as is typical with
Tarantino, various characters prove to have unexpected ties. Others probably
aren’t what they seem. But the tone remains jocular, the conversation
testosterone-laden but not really threatening. At no time does the dynamic
become anywhere near as uneasily tense and precarious as, say, the marvelous opening
scene in Inglourious Basterds, between the French dairy farmer (Denis
Ménochet) and Nazi Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz).
We keep waiting for that
Tarantino to show up. Never happens. The closest we get is during Chapter 5
(“The Four Passengers”), the film’s one modestly lengthy flashback.
Not that there isn’t much to
enjoy, starting with the dynamic between Ruth and the crafty Domergue. Leigh
embraces this down-and-dirty role with merry enthusiasm, her wily vixen being
both atrociously uncouth, and increasingly battered by Ruth, every time she
mouths off. Doesn’t matter what he does — break her nose, knock out some teeth
— she patiently licks the blood off her lips, smiles a feral grin, and bides
her time.
Russell, for his part, channels a
John Wayne-styled alpha dog. Russell obviously loves the part, and well he
should; it fits him perfectly. Ruth is the pluperfect hunter and mountain man:
a big bear of a guy who is patient to a point, and then — like a chiding parent
— quick to administer punishment.
Jackson has an equally good time.
Ruth’s self-assurance notwithstanding, Warren IS this saga’s alpha dog; he
simply doesn’t make noise about it. Jackson radiates calm menace: his drawling
conversation never casual, each passing comment or query designed to elicit a
telling response or reaction.
Goggins, well remembered as the charmingly
lethal Boyd Crowder on TV’s Justified, is a hoot as the excitable Mannix.
He’s always the loudest guy in the room, whether sneering at somebody’s
gullibility, or reacting with shock when he recognizes somebody by reputation.
Goggins is delightfully over the top, which makes us wonder when Mannix’s true
self will emerge.
Madsen and Roth are longtime
Tarantino regulars, both having starred in 1992’s Reservoir Dogs. Roth is a
hoot here as the genteel Mobray, a British transplant who couldn’t seem more
out of place. Roth embraces Mobray’s high-tone speechifying, sounding as if
he’s campaigning for public office, while looking like a watchful demon.
Madsen and Bichir, though, remain
under-developed dead weight: cardboard figures who lack any defining sparkle.
That leaves Dern, who brings angry dignity to his grey-garbed ex-soldier,
obviously still smarting from the South’s loss to its “Union oppressors.”
Jelly beans aside, Taneda dresses
this expansive set with great care, layering all the walls, shelves and tables
with the casually strewn bric-a-brac that one would expect in such an
establishment; you just know, if a drawer is opened, that it’ll be filled with
eclectic and fascinating stuff. Much has been made of the fact that the actors
spent 12 weeks in this deliberately cold environment, their frosted puffs of
breath proof that they worked in sub-freezing temperatures, which definitely
lends authenticity to the setting.
At the same time, this place also
isn’t quite what it seems. Pay attention to Mannix’s line, when he first steps
inside.
Cinematographer Robert Richardson
takes ample advantage of Tarantino’s decision to make this picture on film — in
other words, not digital — via the old-style Ultra Panavision 70 process (which
hasn’t been used on a mainstream feature since Ron Howard’s Far and Away, back in 1992). Indeed, longtime movie fans will smile with appreciation, when
the famed Cinerama logo appears on the screen.
The establishing mountain vistas
are gorgeously framed, Richardson’s lens even capturing individual snowflakes.
There’s simply no question: Film is much prettier, and warmer, than video.
Tarantino’s affection for
old-school movie-making extends further. He opens with an orchestral overture
against a static screen; the aforementioned intermission concludes with another
musical interlude. Patrons who seek out this road-show production — solely at
Sacramento’s Tower Theater, in these parts — are further rewarded with an
old-style, full-color program.
(Following these exclusive
engagements, the film will be shown elsewhere in conventional digital.)
Although this narrative lacks
Tarantino’s signature energy, a few moments showcase his mesmerizing filmmaking
chops. Watch for the long extended take, when Domergue picks up a guitar and
sings a song; Richardson’s camera focuses in and out on her, and on what’s
taking place behind her. Warren’s merrily cruel anecdote is another stand-out,
as is the aforementioned flashback.
Mostly, though, we’re held
captive by Tarantino’s self-indulgent hubris; The Hateful Eight is a film
made by a guy paying too much attention to his previous critical plaudits. He
and editor Fred Raskin should have chopped at least half an hour from this
bloated vanity production.
What we have, instead, is merely
a sorta-hateful eight.
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