Better than expected, but self-indulgence does it in

Rating: 5/10 (1 September 2016)

I have always found Quentin Tarantino to be an overrated wunderkind. Critics and fans rabidly sing his praises, but I find his cinematic output a mixed bag. On one end of the spectrum, I find Pulp Fiction to be an overrated mess, while I think Jackie Brown is a bit underrated and Kill Bill has some incredible moments and performances in it. Inglorious Basterds, is two-thirds a great film (actually the film takes flight any time the Basterds are not on screen) and one-third amateur hour. Still, Tarantino has enough cache to ask for and get concessions that many filmmakers only dream of.
Case in point, The Hateful Eight. Tarantino released some prints in 70mm format requiring some theaters to revive a now-dormant format to accommodate him. His film rings in at a whopping near 3-hour running time and some prints feature an intermission. To say that The Hateful Eight is a tad self-indulgent would be an epic understatement. People seem to either passionately loathe or love this film. I am in between. One must give Tarantino some point for chutzpah in combining a western homage with an Agatha Christie-style mystery - and given that I am a fan of both genres, I should have loved this film. But I did not.
The setting is wintry Wyoming, where bounty hunter Kurt Russell is in the process of returning fugitive criminal Jennifer Jason Leigh to the hangman in Red Roch via coach. Along the way, they encounter first Samuel L. Jackson's legendary bounty hunter who begs a ride and then Walton Goggins, who claims to be the newly hired sheriff of Red Rock. The coach stops at the expected destination of Minnie's Haberdashery for a respite, only to find some strange characters in place rather than the much-discussed Minnie and her usual crew. These include embittered former Confederate Bruce Dern, Mexican barman Demien Bichir, soft-spoken cowpoke Michael Madsen, and the British hangman of Red Rock Tim Roth. When an intense blizzard strands everyone and people start dying off one by one, the questions raise as to who is responsible, who is next and is anyone who they truly claim to be.
On paper, it sounds like a great concept. Unfortunately, Tarantino's self-indulgent, heavy hand too often botches it and prevents it from reaching much higher than a curio piece. Considering that Tarantino went for the 70mm prints, it seems foolish considering that after the opening moments, there are almost no outside scenes to make it worthwhile. Pretty much all of the action stays in the claustrophobic cabin that comprises Minnie's. I would also argue that Ennio Morricone's Oscar-winning score is immensely better than the film in which it resides.
Ditto, the running time is ludicrous considering how slight the story is. Tarantino tries to distract from this with minor flashbacks, camera tricks, coy voice-over narration by Tarantino himself, and - at the two-hour mark - a lengthy flashback which introduces a completely new set of characters to discuss what happened at an earlier point at Minnie's. You will either find these conceits inventive or frustrating.
Equally frustrating is that Tarantino seems to think that he makes his screenplay edgy by packing it with streams of needless profanity and racial/sexist insults. This does not make it authentic, it just makes it difficult and unpleasant to listen to. I think this film may well break a record for how many times the "n" word is utilized and that is followed by the use of the "f" bomb. It becomes wearying fairly quickly and undermines any genuine ingenuity present. It also becomes apparent quickly that none of these people (with the exception of the bystander coach driver James Parks) are worth any rooting interest, but the flashback sequence where one character goads another with an on screen memory (or lie) about sexually violating that person's dying son is pretty repellent. Ditto, the constant scenes of male characters beating and brutalizing Leigh's sole female become a bit much. There were times where I thought that Tarantino must be getting back at every woman that would not date him with this character.
The actors try their best and succeed on varying levels. Jackson and Russell are both solid, if a bit predictable, in their performances. Dern conveys the simmering tension of a racist Confederate cooped up with a black man in authority well. Bichir, Madsen and Roth are underused, while Goggins fares better than expected. If any performance stands out though, it is Leigh's. She seems to be the linchpin holding everything together. We are never told what crime she committed, but Leigh convinces us that it must have been pretty heinous. Her character suffers beatings and indignities galore and yet comes through it all with a malevolent smile. She is ultimately no better or worse than her fellow travelers, but she seems to be the only one having fun with her role and the only one who projects menace even when being victimized.
Finally, the film is not very engaging emotionally. It is a tough obstacle to become involved in the plight of people, who are almost immediately revealed to be ethically beyond redemption and capable of mind-numbing atrocities. The best one can summon is an intellectual curiosity to figure out what is happening and who is in on it. But still by the end, I found myself not caring who lived or died, which does not make for a very fulfilling film experience. I would recommend this solely for Tarantino fanatics and the mildly curious. Anyone else should probably go elsewhere.