Bear Trap

Rating: 8/10 (18 January 2016)

For a man who's awfully fond of four letter words, 'hate' may be Quentin Tarantino's most appropriate in encapsulating his eighth (ha) feature film. Saddled with a production narrative of script leakage and bitterness that eerily mirrored its parable of backstabbing and deceit, Tarantino's second western (or third, if you count Kill Bill Vol. 2) stubbornly slogged through all foreseeable obstacles like its antiheroes trudging through the deepening snow, just in time to wink at its Christmas Day release by opening on a crucified Jesus buried by a blizzard. And, after all that, critic-baiting as its title may seem, the final experience of The Hateful Eight is begrudgingly hard to hate. Dear God does he make you wait for it, but that sonofagun Tarantino has done it again, doggonnit.
This is not immediately apparent. As if extracting his own revenge for the burn of initial script theft, Tarantino stretches his fondness for listening to his characters eloquently prattle on about repetitive, subtext-riddled inanities to the breaking point, introducing his band of miscreants in so playfully lackadaisical a fashion it's excruciating. But then, right when the viewer would be thrown into a rage by one more pregnant pause as Samuel L. Jackson and Kurt Russell wax poetic about Lincoln, in comes another basterd (Hater?), and the field of carefully played out character dynamics and social politics has the rug yanked out from under it again. It's a dangerous waiting game Tarantino plays, and those watching in the privacy of their own home will be sorely tempted to scornfully give up. Trust me: stick it out. It's worth it.
But don't be hasty. One we hole up in Minnie's haberdashery to wait out the punishing blizzard (and Tarantino has great fun building this rich, almost theatrical set, including a recurring gag necessitating nailing the front door shut every time it's kicked down), there's more waiting to be done, albeit with almost palpably thick storm clouds of tension preparing to burst. Here, we're reminded of what the 'hateful' in the title is really about, as Tarantino digs deep into the political fallout of the Civil War and the storied racism it fostered (which, as Tarantino himself would cheerily remind you, remains poignantly topical today), with far less problematically bungled racial politics than Django Unchained, though nearly as uncomfortably racially slurry (historically accurate? Sure. Necessary? Hmm). This infuses the Agatha Christie/The Thing-in- the-old-west's potboiler tension with prescient motive: any number of the fiends stewing in the haberdashery could by lying or have it out for one another for any number of reasons. So we wait. For the entire. Length. Of. An. Average. Feature. Film. And then, the bear trap narrative snaps viciously into play, and we're reminded why we keep giving this preening basterd our money in the first place.
Insanely over-the-top bloodbaths, fourth-wall poking flashbacks narrated by none other than a smirking QT himself (including a dastardly cheeky wink about the benefits of patience, that rotter), and a razor-sharp context finally, cathartically, making itself known, The Hateful Eight's second half payoff IS why you came. It's vintage Tarantino, savagely funny and operatically violent, and all the sillier by being bottled by the pristinely precise cinematography (between this and The Revenant, most of 2015's most beautiful images involve blizzards) and sound work, and punched up by the visceral power of Ennio Morricone's sparse, soulful dirge of an original(!) score. Naturally, it's hard to decide who to root for - everyone is pretty irredeemable for their own reasons - but Tarantino's whip-pan power plays gleefully force you to decide, then hate yourself for it, in a sadistically playful puppeteering act that plays out in really the only way it ever could. Remember that whole first act chat about legal justice vs. frontier justice you discounted as more killing time? Yeah. You will.
Samuel L. Jackson has been waiting twenty years for a meaty Tarantino lead role (again: delayed gratification), but his first one here does not disappoint. Eschewing his normal shoutiness, Jackson finds the power in calmness as he methodically pokes each character around him into going to pieces and showing their hand, his magnetic, force-of-nature charisma put to magnanimous use. Kurt Russell is equally riveting, his sour resolve as mighty as his moustache as he attempts to beat meaning out of the standoff and his prisoner alike. As said bounty, Jennifer Jason Leigh is a firebrand, gargling pathos, blood, and gallows humour with venomous ambivalence, as she is subjected to almost every possible indignity imaginable in this surly boys club. Walton Goggins is similarly disgustingly likable as the purported sheriff of the upcoming town, as impossible to get a beat on as it is impossible to assess whether his sheriff story is utter bunk or not. The rest of the miscreants, all Tarantino vets, patiently (see?) await their moments to shine -though Tim Roth's effetely weaselly gentleman- hangman and Bruce Dern's indignantly racist Confederate general are highlights - while even newbie Channing Tatum spits Tarantino verbiage like the best of them in a cameo that suggests Tarantino must be a Gambit fan.
But, as the rogues simmer on about something being rotten in the state of Wyoming, is it worth the wait (in more ways than one)? Ultimately yes, though even Tarantino deserves a knuckle-rap for indulging himself almost to the breaking point here, when the same effect could have been fostered with up to an hour lopped off. Unapologetically bloated as it is, The Hateful Eight gives you all of the Tarantino mayhem you want to those patient enough to ride out the calm before the storm. Hell, it's probably the only virtue he's ever advocated for, so maybe it should be commended. Still: pairing Quentin with an editor who forces him to keep his running time under 90 minutes? Ultimate frontier justice.
{And, of course, how could this be rated anything but:}
-8/10