The Hateful Eight (2015)

The name of the game in Quentin Tarantino’s latest film, The Hateful Eight, is not race relations in America, nor is it the thoughtful interrogation of justice it thinks it is. It’s not a postwar state of the union, a snowbound Twelve Angry Men, or even a claustrophobic Django Unchained. No, the name of the game is exorbitance, an immoderate superfluity indulging in the most colorful – and overfull – version of the story. When the characters on screen play raconteur, it’s charming and engaging, but Tarantino’s intemperance in the same suggests a contempt for his audience which is, frankly, wearisome.

En route to deliver his prisoner Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh) to the hangman’s noose, John Ruth (Kurt Russell) finds his carriage occupied by fellow bounty hunter Marquis Warren (Samuel L. Jackson) and the sheriff (Walton Goggins) of Red Rock, the foursome’s destination. A blizzard, however, detours the carriage to Minnie’s Haberdashery, an insular cabin already populated by four quirky characters – a hangman (Tim Roth), a Confederate general (Bruce Dern), a writer (Michael Madsen), and caretaker Señor Bob (Demián Bichir). As the snow falls, tensions rise when the occupants of Minnie’s find that not all of them are telling the full truth.

That’s a really keen premise. Armond White took the words right out of my mouth when he called The Hateful Eight a cross between Agatha Christie and John Ford (those are, however, the only words we have in common). It’s akin to an adaptation of And Then There Were None as filmed on the set of Bonanza with the profanity filter set to Deadwood. And in the hands of a screenwriter who could restrain himself in the way that he restricts the setting, The Hateful Eight could have been a masterclass in a lot of ways that would make Sidney Lumet smile with admiration.

Tarantino is not, however, that filmmaker. It’s very nearly accurate to refer to The Hateful Eight as his most narcissistic film, as in love with the sound of his own dialogue as he clearly is, but he’s equally enamored of the Wyoming landscape which must look a treat in 70mm (which I didn’t see) but otherwise come off as sideshow decoration, and there are only so many lingering shots of landscape one can bear before the weight of three hours feels a punishing burden. The fact is that The Hateful Eight might have been a much stronger film had it been pruned much more tightly. Of its six chapters, for example, one (the fifth) is entirely negligible, consisting as it does of yet another mindless slaughter whose particulars any thinking audience would rightly have inferred. Rendered in its full Technicolor glory (and gory), however, it’s one more note of excess in a film that is grossly (and I use the term advisedly) bloated.

That’s not to say there isn’t anything to be enjoyed in The Hateful Eight. Jackson is, as ever, charismatic and a joy to watch; there’s a surprising chemistry between Jackson and Russell, poignant at both ends of the spectrum from their lukewarm greeting to the simmering disappointment between them. And there’s a knockout sequence at the beginning of Chapter Four where the tension is at fever pitch, recalling the tensest moments of Inglourious Basterds when the narrator – in a gimmick I usually loathe but here can’t imagine a better deployment – reveals that all is not as it seems because someone knows something the others in the room don’t. As Minnie’s descends into amateur sleuthing and chaotic distrust, we get glimpses of the dynamite that The Hateful Eight could have been.

Instead, we get a film that sags under its own weight. There are good performances in it, memorable moments, but what ought to be the standout feature – Tarantino’s dialogue – is utterly and disappointingly unmemorable. (I defy you to quote a line from it, the way you could after Django or Pulp Fiction.) Tarantino has said that he’s only going to direct two more films, and if that’s the case he may need a new editor (apologies to Fred Raskin, who did a good job on Django but didn’t nay-say enough here). Something’s gotta give, and at three hours with The Hateful Eight, this time it was me.

Is it some kind of perverse pattern that I’m destined not to enjoy fully the first film I review each year?

The Hateful Eight is rated R for “strong bloody violence, a scene of violent sexual content, language and some graphic nudity.” It’s a Tarantino movie, so you’ve got your usual (read: exorbitant) quantity of N-words, F-bombs, and strawberry-colored effluvium. A man is seen fully nude while another man narrates about sexually assaulting him, with colorful prose.

Monday at the Movies - October 1, 2012

Welcome to Week Thirty-Six of “Monday at the Movies.”  In recognition of the impending release of Django Unchained, and having already reviewed some of his films here before, we’re going to take a look at the rest of the oeuvre of Quentin Tarantino.

Reservoir Dogs (1992) – The auteur’s debut film, Reservoir Dogs is an odd case for me.  I’ve seen it at least twenty times, and when I was younger I was madly in love with it.  It’s the story of a jewel heist gone wrong, with the bandits interrogating each other to identify which is a police informant.  The plot is not quite original, but it’s an entry point for audiences into the oddball flair of Quentin Tarantino – the snappy dialogue, the unflinching violence, the romanticized nostalgia for the Seventies.  Honestly, this time out the film seemed more boring (but not unwatchable) than I remembered; there are long stretches where the characters do nothing but talk, and while this is fabulous for an enthusiast of the written word it doesn’t make for the most engaging moving pictures (this in a post-Avengers world, which also used an ensemble cast, but to more thrilling success).  What I must have loved as a young’un is Michael Madsen’s turn as the cold psychopath Mr. Blonde, which still works, as does Steve Buscemi as the rattled Mr. Pink.  But on the most recent watch, the real treasure isn’t the trademark Tarantino screenplay; it’s the performance of Harvey Keitel as Mr. White, whose dedication to the dying Mr. Orange (Tim Roth) meant more to me now than it could have as a child.  Looking back on Reservoir Dogs as a “first film,” it does what a first film ought to – demonstrate the potential of a new filmmaker with promise but without peaking.

That does it for this week’s edition of “Monday at the Movies.” We’ll see you here next week!

The Incredible Hulk (2008)

Undoubtedly and by leaps and bounds, Louis Leterrier's 2008 reboot-slash-sequel The Incredible Hulk is a vast improvement on Ang Lee's 2003 Hulk, which left an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

But, as Spencer Tracy remarks of David Wayne in Adam's Rib, "he wouldn't have far to go, either." With Ed Norton as Dr. Bruce Banner, aka The Hulk, and Tim Roth as villain Emil Blonsky, the film has a good headstart as it leaves the gate.

There's not a whole lot in the way of exposition in the movie, which from a "slugfest" point of view is a great adrenaline rush. The movie finds Banner in Brazil, with General Ross (a mustachioed William Hurt) trying to find the gamma-radiation-infected scientist. Each time the two encounter each other, Banner transforms into the not-so-jolly-green-giant Hulk and tears apart every army platoon thrown at him. Banner ultimately wants to cure his condition, while Ross wants to dissect it.

Mercifully, this incarnation is more "Hulk smash!" than Lee's "Hulk angst!" In a large way, The Incredible Hulk is a great deal like Terminator 3 - it's a chase film, plain and simple, with one party chasing another until the ultimate confrontation, replete with hand-to-hand combat, reversals of fortune, and gobs of property destruction. The special effects are, well, special and (appropriately enough) incredible. Amazing what five years can do; rather than Lee's big green blur of a Hulk, this Hulk is defined, as is his hulking adversary Abomination. The creatures, between which we're sandwiched during the epic final battle, seem more real - but not quite, yet. Give it a few more years; maybe by the 2011 Avengers movie we've been promised, we'll have a totally realistic Hulk.

I've commended Norton and Roth for the intensity and depth they bring to their characters, but the weak link in the acting chain is Liv Tyler, who replaces Jennifer Connelly as the love interest. Worst recast since Roger Moore? Probably. Tyler is boring, and we wonder what Norton could possibly see in her. Then again, Norton has a history of on-screen romances with dull women: I cite Jessica Biel's vapid turn in The Illusionist as proof positive of this unfortunate trend. Speaking of superhero girlfriends, this summer we've got a line-up of Gwyneth Paltrow (Iron Man), Tyler, and Maggie Gyllenhaal (The Dark Knight); what's next, Katherine Heigl as Wonder Woman? (Oh, please, God, no.)

All that said, there's something... off about this movie. I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it's Tyler's lackluster performance. Maybe it's the frustration I get at Banner's oft-repeated mantra, "I don't want to control it. I want to cure it." That's equivalent to Superman saying he would rather live in a red-sunned solarium all day rather than learn to use his powers. Or maybe it's that I expect something more from a superhero movie than constant running. Shouldn't a hero confront his problems?

The film strikes a curious final note, with an ambiguous ending for Banner. At least, the director intended it to be ambiguous. Then comes one of the best cameos in movie history - Robert Downey Jr. struts in as Tony Stark, giving that "Marvel Universe" feel to the movie. Heck, it's almost worth it to see Downey Jr. playing the role for which he was born.

Take that, Tropic Thunder.