It's Hateful

I am not sure what is worse, the narcissistic assumption that we are as interested in his opus numbers as we might have been in Fellini's, or the unbridled and increasing tendency to defile his models. Whereas Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs, and even Jackie Brown, elevated their pulp material into something more measured and nuanced, Death Proof began with nothing and left us with nothing. Since Inglourious Basterds, Tarantino has instead taken lofty political subjects and, combining them with his personal cinephilia and ultraviolence, travestied them. Now, with The Hateful Eight, a Ten Little Niggers that replaces morality with happenstance, he sticks his snout unabashedly into the trough as far as it will go, bludgeoning Sergio Leone to death with his profane circumlocutions and abject misanthropy.