The Hateful Eight

The Hateful Eight, 2015

Directed by Quentin Tarantino, 187 minutes

Samuel L. Jackson, Kurt Russell, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Walton Goggins, Tim Roth

Review by Katherine Scheetz

              With shots of vast, snow-covered Wyoming boonies and gunslinger style font, tribute to the mighty gods of Western film is paid in the opening credits. Whether you like his style or not, you respect Tarantino’s nod at his cinematic heritage.

             

         Bounty Hunter John Ruth (Russell) has hired out the last stagecoach to Red Rock transporting outlaw Daisy Domergue (Leigh) and outrunning a blizzard. After two cleverly written verbal shoot outs, he reluctantly ends up with strays, Major Warren (Jackson) and Sheriff Mannix (Goggins), en route to Minnie’s Haberdashery, their rest stop to wait out the snowstorm. In the post-Civil War upheaval there could not be a more gregarious coach ride.

              Upon arrival at the cabin we wait patiently for each character to nail the door closed behind themselves and then, once a gloved hand slips poison into the coffee, settle in for what promises to be the bloodiest game of Whodunnit? we’ve ever seen. Tarantino does not disappoint.

              With displayed scene titles and four walls keeping them in, the illusion of a stage play is only lacking in red-velvet curtains framing the screen.

              Jennifer Jason Leigh is not the standard female of an old western, and boy, do the men want her to know it. She looks positively Carrie-like by the end of the film, though not without putting up a fight. Her groadie, seductive swagger earns her more than a few broken bones as does her sharp tongue. Watching the lit-stick-of-dynamite ensemble circle her, chained in place, is a testament to Leigh’s command of Daisy.

              With his usual finesse, Tarantino overdoes all the stereotypes: southern, white supremacy racist in an office daddy bought him, black Civil War vet gone rogue out in the west, old school, southern general and stoic, soulful cowboy. Even the minor characters bleed with super-saturated, Manifest Destiny enthusiasm. It is Tarantino’s way and he does it so very well against Ennio Morricone’s orchestral nail-biter of a score.

              If you can stomach chunks of human in another person’s hair, then enjoy what Tarantino has offered up.              

                           

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