The Hollywood Reporter
Most of us were raised to believe that cowboys were men of few words, but Quentin Tarantino is out to prove otherwise in The Hateful Eight, a three-hour Western that's windy both inside and out. There is absolutely no doubt about who wrote the elaborate, pungent, profane and often funny dialogue that a fine cast chews over and spits out with evident glee, nor as to who staged the ongoing bloodbath that becomes a gusher in the final stretch. But set mostly in the confined space of a remote haberdashery/stagecoach stop, the stagebound piece plays like a weird combination of John Ford's Stagecoach, Agatha Christie's Ten Little Indians and Jean-Paul Sartre's No Exit, albeit with a word count closer to Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh. If this makes it sound like Tarantino is moving toward being as much a playwright as a filmmaker, stranger things have happened. The director's loyal fans, plus anyone keen to relish Samuel L. Jackson authoritatively stating how...
Don’t sit on a throne of lies for day 11 of Romancemas.
This past year delivered blockbuster entertainment, but we have a few requests for 2025 if jolly ol’ Saint Nick obliges.
BD: "Without further ado, here are the top fifteen best horror movies of 2024."
