After
Pulp Fiction received so much attention at the Cannes Film Festival in 1994 (and would go on to broad critical acclaim, and a pile of nominations and wins), I couldn't wait to purchase a ticket at the local movie house. The Quentin Tarantino flick was impressive, with fresh dialogue and storytelling that launched the screenwriter/director into Hollywood elite status. Eager to sample more of his work, I soon heard about
Reservoir Dogs, the director's first feature film with Harvey Keitel in a lead role. I'd certainly witnessed Tarantino's emphasis on violence in
Pulp Fiction, but in no way did it prepare me for the portrayal of violence in
Reservoir Dogs, which also received widespread critical acclaim as an independent film noir. Nearly from the start, one or more characters suffers in agony from gunshot and razor wounds, and all die by the end. After that bloody mess, I swore I'd never watch another Tarantino film. More than a decade later, I finally sucked it up and paid good money for an evening with
The Hateful Eight.
Quentin Tarantino doesn't disappoint in this odd nod to the western genre. He brings it in with twists, turns, and idiosyncratic characters who entertain, startle, and confound. But there were also scenes that prompted me to cringe when I thought he'd gone too far. A wild ride from the opening scene, the story unfolds with a stagecoach driver and his passenger, Major Marquis Warren (Samuel L. Jackson), a black officer from the Civil War now turned bounty hunter, traveling across the vast American plains with a blizzard only an hour behind. The plan is to reach Minnie's Haberdashery, a lodge where they will spend the night and take refuge from the storm before it hits. But there are delays along the way when three more characters, stranded in the snow, plead for a ride -- John "The Hangman" Ruth (Kurt Russell), another bounty hunter, his prisoner, Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh), and eventually, Sheriff Chris Mannix (Walton Goggins), who will rule on Daisy's death by hanging. Needless to say, this quartet of hateful characters doesn't sing in harmony. Their exchanges fan the tension that's building in the tiny quarters of the stagecoach. But when the Major presents a personal letter sent to him by Abraham Lincoln, the travelers are hushed into momentary silence. (Note: The letter will become a point of conversation at the lodge as well, and will lead to a confession that heats up the hateful stew brewing near the boiling point.)
As much as a third of the movie occurs before the arrival at Minnie's. Strangely, she and her husband are missing, but four more characters have checked in for the night to complete the roster of eight. Quirky conversations ensue to provide comic relief in some cases, and conflict and confusion in others. Suspicions fill the room like a thick fog until all cards are played and the inevitable occurs. Poor Daisy has already suffered more than her share of damage at the hands of the bounty hunter, but the entire gang lines up for a bloodbath of finales. At times, it's comic, and at other times, I had to look away. Throughout, I asked myself -- what's the point here?
There is no redemption in The Hateful Eight. This is an exercise wherein character arcs, subplots, and conflicts result in violence with a heaping dash of comedy, surprise, and guts. Morality doesn't play a role or even a cameo, which is best exemplified in a story told by the Major to the old general (Bruce Dern) who's traveled from afar to find his dead son's burial site. In a clinical but lighthearted style, the Major informs the general that he knew his son and was with him when he died. In fact, he forced the boy to walk naked in the snow until he collapsed, and then raped him with brutal oral sex before he killed him. This little tale is chilling to the point of freezing, a callous disregard for anything sacred. One has to wonder if the audience will tire of these gimmicks at some point, since they appear to serve no purpose other than shock.
The score soars across the expanse of the terrain, through the duration of the film, to stir anticipation and tension, and to win at least one Golden Globe for the film. The gray and white outdoor photography, with the blizzard front and center, foreshadows the violence that is ripe to explode inside the lodge. A late whodunit adds a bit of intrigue to the somewhat aimless storyline.
Tarantino fans must surely revel in their director's latest achievement. I have to admit I enjoy much of the filmmaker's style, but I still question his hunger for heavy-handed violence that serves the sole purpose of annihilation. Even if it's intended as a parody of the American western, there are no good guys and bad guys like we see in classic westerns. Tarantino's characters are all bad guys. Nobody comes out alive, and nobody has any redeeming qualities. So I ask myself, "was it worth it to spend an evening with them?" Hard to say.
