Tarantino is not an artist, he's a porn purveyor

Rating: 1/10 (20 January 2016)

I don't write movie reviews or post messages on Internet boards, but I am compelled to comment after seeing Quentin Tarantino's: "The Hateful Eight" last night. Take all the graphic violence of "Reservoir Dogs," mix in a double dose of "Pulp Fiction" perversion, add a mind-numbing measure of Tarantino's most disgusting, revolting fantasies, dress it all up in Western garb, with an Agatha Christie-like whodunit plot, and you have the essence of this film.
Do you enjoy seeing a handcuffed woman elbowed full force in the mouth, or punched repeatedly until her face is bloody? Do you find it amusing to witness a man take a bullet to the groin, and then scream in agony? Do you go out of your way to watch men in their death throes projectile vomiting blood? Do you find it entertaining to see a guy marched naked at through the snow, and then forced to perform a sex act on his antagonist in the freezing cold? Is it amusing to witness a man's brains splatter on the face of the person in front of him as he is shot from behind? Does the sight of a man standing over a beautiful woman, who lies injured and helpless on the floor, and then blasting her at point blank with dual pistols give you satisfaction? Then you're going to love this movie.
Tarantino's vulgar brand of entertainment eclipses every other film-maker. Danny Boyle, your obsession with toilets ("Trainspotting," "Slumdog Millionaire") dead infants and child abuse ("Slumdog" and "Trainspotting"), must step aside. Sorry Mr. Coppola, bloody horse heads and Luca Brasi's piano wire executions are minor league. And Mr. Spielberg, your depiction of soldiers taking bullets in "Saving Private Ryan" was bloody and graphic, but you still come up short. Quentin Tarantino stands alone in the genre of gore, perversion and vulgarity. This film doesn't belong in the local cinaplex, it belongs in the porn shop with the private viewing booths and the glory holes. Shame on the Weinsteins for allowing such a title to appear under their patronage. There is zero spiritual value to this film. No underlying moral theme. No snappy repartee. Not a single sympathetic character. Not even any comic relief. Nothing at all to engage your higher mind. Just the vulgar vision of a grown man who still has the mind and character of an adolescent boy.
I could have watched "Star Wars," or "The Revenant," both showing at the same cinaplex, but I was taken in by the hype over Tarantino's use of 70mm film, and expected some sort of visual spectacle. Boy did I screw up. Friends, if I ever talk about seeing another Tarantino movie again, give me a good hard smack to snap me out of it. Quentin Tarantino is not an artist, he's porn purveyor -- a man-child with way too much money who caters to the lowest animal instincts of the most ignorant among us. It speaks volumes about the pathetic state of our modern culture for a spectacle like this to get to the big screen in your neighborhood theatre.