My wife and I sat through THE HATEFUL EIGHT this weekend on Netflix.
Let me start out by being totally diplomatic.
What a pile of steaming shit.
Whoever told Quentin Tarantino that it would be a good idea to cross an Agatha Christie cosy with a spaghetti western set-up ought to be shot to death with a cannon-load of poisonous Goldfish crackers.
I know that someone is going to pipe up and tell me how I missed the point of his brilliant juxtaposition of two completely disparate genre. I know that somebody else will mention the gorgeous cinematography and the impressive Morricone score, but I still call it the way that I smelled it. I stuck right through to the end, hoping that he would remember that this was supposed to be SOME kind of a western and it just came on rattling on and on with the endless blathering needless and pointless exposition that I could pretend was ironic through the first twenty minutes or so and then as the characters continued with a nonstop yadda-yadda-yadda I began to look around for that cannon-load of Goldfish to blast out my brains with.
I guess, in my totally diplomatic opinion, Quentin Tarantino hired some poor fellow with a beat-up snow shovel to run behind that team of stagecoach horses, shoveling up what the horses left behind and dumping it into his bloated, mind-numbing excuse for a script.
Mind you, Samuel L. Jackson did a heck of job with the dialogue and I even phoned him up and told him so and he said me the meme that you see proudly displayed below this paragraph.
Now pass me those Goldfish, would you?
Yours in Storytelling,