The Hateful Eight (2015)

The Hateful Eight (R)

 "Reservoir CowDogs"

A pair of bounty hunters cross paths on the way to a snowed in Wyoming outpost, only to meet a slew of strangers holed up in a blizzard. One is hauling a live prisoner worth a $10,000 reward, and suspects everyone else of collusion, theft or chicanery.  Some may live or die, but none will escape unbloodied in Quentin Tarantino's 8th film, the red-soaked return to form The Hateful 8.

First, it must be said that Hateful Eight is less of a genre-ape than his previous few films, if anything TH8 is in the genre of his own first film Reservior Dogs (stick with your own genres QT), but by moving the narrative to the post-Civil War era has allowed him to toy with the idea that sometimes in our past even the good guys were pretty bad.  It turns into a slight whos-gonna-doit/who-dunnit  but since every one is a racist/misogynistic pig of varying likeability the answer could be anyone and we'd be happy.  The cast who plays these 8 are as much a who's who of past QT films as it's own plot points, and the story is framed like a stage-play, built from acts, using many of QT's previous trademarks that have come and gone through the years (the chapter marks from Kill Bill, the blood and crime drama of Res Dogs, the western-as-a-setting-to-provides-discussion-of-modern-race-relations of Django, the time distortion from most his films, the sudden out of place narrator and hidden-just-beyond-sight danger of Inglorious Basterds, and of course the director's cameo (though admittedly one of his least obtrusive)).  All of these make H8 more of a classic QT film (unlike Django Unchained, which we may have been too-hard on but we hold QT to a higher level and expect something beyond just a genre-rehash for modern wish fulfillment).  Hateful Eight is bolder than anything he's done in awhile, with a full commitment to his play-like setting with a large cast of regulars to mix it up in his bloody evil sandbox.

And those Hateful Eight are Kurt Russell (Death Proof) as John "Hangman" Ruth, brutally leading his prisoner Daisy Domergue (an almost unrecognizable Jennifer Jason Leigh) to the noose, the irreplaceable Samuel L. Jackson (Pulp Fiction) as his fellow bounty hunter Major Marquis Warren who must justify his own existence constantly due to the color of his skin, Walton Goggins and Bruce Dern (both from Django) as Southern Rebels still nursing their loss in the War of Oppression, and Tim Roth and Michael Madsen (both from Resevoir Dogs) dressed up as two dangerous dandies out of place on the Western frontier.  There are other new faces and old, but they are all wrapped singularly into the fate of Daisy and her appointment with the hangman and those who would stand in the way.  Madsen's bizarre toughguy routine is blunted by his equally bizarre Will Rogers wardrobe (sticking out like a saddle sore thumb).  Yet Jennifer's deliciously evil spitting crone has some viewers screaming "anti-woman" for the violence she is subjected to and lack of white-knighting onscreen.  However, what QT is going for, and has successfully captured, is the harsh world of crime and punishment on the outlying segments of civilized society, a place where a gun and a fist are daily occurrences, where death is just outside your door if you aren't huddled by a fire and keep your horses fed, a world with a deadly lack of information and shifting trusts, of self reliance and uneasy pacts, the non-idealized old west where lynching and Injun wars and getting shot in the back were the realities, and women really were second class citizens trying to make a life amongst these brutes.  You can hate the player a bit, but you should really be hating the game more, and QT is shining the light on our forefathers.

Now it ain't all comin' up roses.  The movie is lengthy, and although it pays off in spades for it's long run it is also very wordy (luckily no "in the middle of everything Superman speeches" here however).  In that weighty runtime there aren't enough amazing moments to quite sustain; no Jew Hunter at the table, no ear severance dance, no showdown at House of Blue Leaves, no Bags on Heads, no high octane car crash leg ejection.  There is however enough tension and blood to maintain entertainment.  And with a delightfully bombastic score by Spaghetti Western master-composer Ennio Morricone (with some leftover bits from his score from Carpenter's The Thing), it marks the first film Tarantino has used an original score and it comes off perfectly (he still sneaks in some choice cuts from modern sources).  The cast at large does a terrific job (love ya Bob!), with Roth and Leigh and Russell and Goggins in particular enjoying their dialogue time on screen as much as we enjoy witnessing it.

So what is the point of all this, the 70mm wide angles, the straight foray into the American west of an admitted genre-muckraker, the encapsulating music, the buckets and buckets of gore, the fur coats and facial hair, the disparity of North vs South, Black vs White, Man vs Woman, Everyone vs Mexican?  Why Channing Tatum, why a Roadshow release, why yet another good excuse for QT to use the N-Word?  For the best reasons of all.  To tell a story that you can feel and see and hear and think about, and that is why Quentin wrote it and the actors enjoyed playing it and why it can be watched by us.  All 8+ characters are to be reviled and cheered as they suffer loudly, it is shades of grey for who justly lives and dies and ultimately who is the least hateful and who triumphs despite being hateful themselves.  It is almost a polar opposite of this year's other big (biggest ever) release, Disney's Star Wars The Force Awakens.  TH8 is Non-PC, non-regurgitated, non-self referencing, non-market tested consumer approved popart, and it was all made on non-digital cellulose film for and by cinephiles.  This is cinema as high-art succumbing to it's basest desires, the spoken word from the typed page, the cold puffs of breath from a boiling actor lost in their role, the mountain vistas splashed with golden sunlight and the grungy floorboards soaked in crimson lifeblood.

See y'all down the trail.

8 Well-Loved Lincoln Letters and Pots of Coffee out of 10 (GREAT)

Django Unchained (2012)

Django Unchained (R) - Review

"Uncle Quentin's Cabin"

Quentin Tarantino (Pulp Fiction) has been cruising lately, making vague clones of film geek genre pictures that were popular popculture fodder from the 70s.  He did it in 2003 and 04 with the Kill Bill films (Hong Kong kung fu action films brought back to life).  He did it in 2007 with Grindhouse's Death Proof (a quasi HorrorSlasher flick using a car).  He did it again in 2009 to critical acclaim with Inglorious Basterds  (a WWII exploited squad adventure flick soaked in revenge and intrigue).  And now he brings us Django, a throwback to the blaxploitation and the spaghetti westerns of our father's VCR days.  Jamie Foxx stars as the former slave hell bent on getting his wife back from villainous plantation owner Leonardo DiCaprio.  Django is aided and trained by a sage German Dentist played by Christoph Waltz who's acting antics again tries to both steal the show and head it dangerously towards buffoonery.  Racism is unavoidable in Django but that noose is mostly slipped with the movie's only truly great (and highly comedic) scene when the Klux Klan (lead by  Don Johnson and Jonah Hill) is arguing about the comfort level and practicality of riding around wearing hoods.  Slipped but not forgotten since near the end of the film Sam Jackson shows up as DiCaprio's sinister head house slave and resident Uncle Tom in an interesting but slightly out of place role.  Jackson's substandard "MF bombs" are each blows to the balancing act of realism and truth Django's world had been trying to achieve.  The final act's stretch and breaking of said worlds rules further frustrated me; better to have the final shoot out be the final shoot out than to try and have me believe a slaver would trustingly hand a former slave a gun which then just lead us back to that same conclusion.  These are writing problems, editorial problems, thematic problems and all three just throw Django off from greatness.

In fact, the entire movie as a whole has an off kilter out of placeness to it.  For a Tarantino film it has shockingly few dialogue pieces, murky and unexpressed motivations, the soundtrack just didn't sizzle with that funky hipness that usually drives his movies along.  And then there are the standard QT film cliches.  It is wordy and overlong (2 hours 45 minutes for a silly shootemup western?), it is too flippant about serious race issues and that is always a distraction, the exploitation film conventions of swish pans and zooms feel throw away and tacked on and disingenuous, Quentin's acting (Australian accent, really??!?!) was atrocious as always but that's not to mention the eccentric affectations and scenery chewing performed by his a-list cast.  Somewhere in there is supposed to be a romantic tale of a husband saving his wife but honestly Django often seems to forget that fact and when it happens it felt hallow and without power, Quentin was more interested in the blood and bullets than love and racism it impeded.

This still is a master story teller at work and these are some of his strongest visuals yet.  His eye for minutia is unmatched, the way a german pours a beer, the welts on a slaves back, the costumes and period locations all are top notch and speak to a high level of preproduction.  The single slow motion shot of blood spraying onto a cotton bloom ingeniously summarizes the entire film's narrative and morality, it is unfortunate the rest of the movie is not so quick witted.  If it is overlong perhaps it is due to the loss of his beloved editor Sally Menke who had cut all of QTs movies up until her tragic death in 2010.  The pace isn't as electric, the seams show a bit more and it wore on me just slightly (15-20 minutes or so less would have elevated  it above just pop entertainment).  The expected funky groove just didn't bloom.

Django is not a failure, it has enough squibs and brutality and humor to please any audience.  I think there are some like me who might be a little let down that he hasn't progressed beyond (nay, he has even sunk further into) his exploitation film roots.  QT's  Pulp Fiction founded a genre, not followed one.  This is the kind of lazy rehash I know Tarantino can bang out on a whim and a weekend, it lacked the obvious signs of deep artistic forethought and the stunning level of writing he at times can produce.  This is old hat for Tarantino, and I for one would like to see him try on something new (the 10 gallon variety was a good choice though).

6.5 N words out of 10 (GOOD)

From Dusk Till Dawn (1996)

From Dusk Till Dawn (R)

"Hackula, Dead and Loving it"

The deadly Gecko brothers, fresh from a bank robbery and jail break, are  causing havoc throughout southern Texas, take a ex-Preacher, his RV and two children hostage, using them to sneak over the border to Mexico where they can live out their lives in the sun.  The only thing that can halt their spree are their own self destructive tendencies, one decent man's spirit, and a brood of devil worshiping Aztec bloodsuckers in Robert Rodriquez' (El Mariachi) direction of one of Quentin Tarantino's best action scripts.

FDTD is two movies with a swerve connecting them, arriving at a swift pace and razor sharp dialogue.  George Clooney, in his first starring role plays the brains of the Gecko brothers.  He steals the show from the get go, shedding the OR scrubs for a professional thief with a black suit and neck tattoos that proved he would soon be Hollywood's go-to bachelor superstar.  Quentin himself plays the other, seedier Gecko, one with a predilection to rape, murder and hallucinations (QT actually nails this role).  Their relationship is center to the first half of the movie, a buddy dynamic that is loving as it is demented.  The characters that cross their paths are likewise well defined and cannon fodder for the Gecko's mayhem, centered by headliner Harvey Keitel (Bad Lieutenant) as the burned out preacher with a dead wife on his soul.  Together they make it through Texas and to a low life bar across the border, drinking and waiting for sunrise and their escort to the good life.  And that's where the second movie begins and things almost fall apart.

What once was a on-the-lam crime film with red hot dialogue (some of Tarantino's snappiest and most believable) with good action and vibrating with testosterone injected one liners oh-so-bad-guys you love to hate, suddenly transmogrifies into a supernatural gore fest with silly cheesy effects and over the top ridiculousness.  It is jarring, but not altogether unsuccessful.  There are ideas aplenty, ideas rushed onto the screen and smashed with gleeful vigor (as often is the case with Rodriguez' films).  Some of the make up does not hold up well, bad masks and awful morph effects straight from the 90s lowbudget wave (RRs bread and butter).  Prudction desings like a biker (infamous VFX guru Tom Savini) with a six-shooter for a penis, the lovely Salma Hayek gets a makeover only a snake mother could love, blacksploitation star Fred Williamson gets a makeup job that looks so cheap in closeups it looks like it came off the Halloween rack at Walmart.

Yet somehow Clooney and Keitel push through this madness and deliver an emotional, action fueled mad house of bat-killing frenzy.  QT's script is subdued in just the right ways (no overlong conversations about some off topic pop culture wizbangs), RRs manic camera links to the ridiculous on screen story very well (demonic Mariachi bands aside).  There is gravitas and red-gravy spraying everywhere, the film is a half greatness and half lunacy.  Which half appeals to you is all a matter of taste (with a side of tequila, salt, lime and bloody body shots).

7 Cheechs Double Cameos out of 10 (GOOD)