Good guys are nowhere in sight in The Hateful Eight. They are obsolete, leaving only hateful, slaying serpents roaming the lands. A sensational Samuel L. Jackson plays Maj. Marquis Warren, an ex-Union soldier who is still deeply plagued by racism years after the Civil War. He finds aid from a stage coach carrying a grizzly, untamed John “The Hangman” Ruth (a hellaciously cracking Kurt Russell), a bounty hunter chained to a battered and bruised Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh), his high-ticket prisoner he must get to Red Rock so he can watch her die. By his nickname, I am positive you can reckon which way she is intended to meet her maker. Their route is interrupted by a relentless Wyoming blizzard; consequently forcing them to make a pit stop at Minnie’s Haberdashery where they are not alone.
Confronted by an eclectic squad with conniving faces, secrets are filling up the room. The farcical, terrific Walton Goggins is a scene-stealer as Chris Mannix, a Johnny Rebel who avers he’s the new sheriff of Red Rock. Reunited Reservoir Dogs, Michael Madsen and Tim Roth share the screen once again as Joe Gage and Oswaldo Mobray. Gage is a quiet cowboy just looking to spend Christmas with his momma. Innocent enough. Oswaldo is a refined Brit whose gig conveniently happens to be a hangman. There’s Senor Bob (Demian Bichir), a Mexican who insists that he’s looking after the place for the absent Minnie, and Confederate General Sanford Smithers who has a real vendetta against people who share the same skin color as Major Warren.
Something’s up and everybody knows it. As each chapter materializes, the audience is given pieces of bait about each character and their purpose for being in this exact place, at this exact moment in time. Without hesitation, we lovingly take it, increasingly craving more right after. That’s the power of Quentin Tarantino and his bag of cinematic tricks. The Hateful Eight is cunning and calculated on purpose. Tarantino keeps it close to the vest, slowly revealing one card at a time. That fraught feeling you get while waiting for something detrimental to happen constantly lingers with each look that’s given and every keen line of dialogue spoken. Patience is a must because it takes a little while for the blood to begin bursting, but once it does, there’s a never ending flow.
Being wild and bringing barbarity to the big screen is something Tarantino lives for. Lets not kid ourselves and pretend playing it safe is one of his strong suits. His signature style is unapologetic with devilish, controversial implications soaked in all of his films, and this whodunit Western is loaded with them all. Tarantino may come off as brassy in his work, yet behind the vulgarity and wantonness, there’s splendor to be found in what he can do with words and a camera.
Speaking of cameras—70mm is glorious indeed.
Tarantino finds amusement in the outrageous, but never lets it take over the narrative. Possessing the ability to fasten our attention without succumbing to explosions and other inessential distractions is one of his true gifts. The Hateful Eight is a fine example of that. For 3 hours, you will listen to every rapturous word of his portentous poetry.
You know I did.
Brandon Vick is the resident film critic of the SoBros Network. Follow him on Twitter@SirBrandonV and be sure to search #VicksFlicks for all of his latest movie reviews.
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