A deeply conflicting version of fun.
Quentin Tarantino's The Hateful Eight is a lot of things. Boring, of course, isn't one of them.
This is Tarantino. And it's very entertaining, even when it's entertainingly vile, which happens a lot in this overlong movie's extended third act.
The film is pointless, even as entertainment, because it builds to nothing more than a comic book blood bath.
What was it about this cramped, underdeveloped parlor drama -- the majority of which takes place on one set -- that caused Tarantino to think 70mm?
The Hateful Eight is too extreme, too ghoulishly violent, too besieged by its ensemble's overriding villainy, to feel like anything but a dark chamber piece.
By the end of "The Hateful Eight," its status as a tale of mystery and its deference to classic Westerns have all but disappeared, worn down by the grind of its sadistic vision.
The Hateful Eight is devilishly good.
This is an impressive ensemble, and Tarantino has a true gift for dialogue and story twists, but in the end, all that talent seems to have been spent on pretty empty notions.