In post Civil-War Wyoming, a stagecoach carrying a bounty hunter (Kurt Russell) and his fugitive (Jennifer Jason Leigh) comes across a fellow bounty hunter sitting atop a pile on the trail. Trying to stay ahead of a looming blizzard, the three seek shelter at Minnie’s Haberdashery where they encounter an assortment of grizzled Western stereotypes straight out of a Sergio Leone epic. Despite the spectacular scenery, the Film is actually a chamber piece which, due to the confined atmosphere of the well-designed set, feels more like a play than a film. All the actors are game, playing up the theatricality of the piece as if inflecting across a proscenium arch as they revel in their stereotypical roles in Tarantino’s Western sandbox.

The director’s stylistic flair and tense scene building are on full display, but not much clicks together. Tarantino skirts the line of self-parody, returning to the same gimmicky well that he’s used throughout his career. But where it once felt fresh and daring to frame his work like a novel complete with chapter titles, now feels more like an aging artist unsure of how to step outside his comfort zone.

The problems add up when the film comes back from its self-satisfied intermission and the story unravels into an incoherent mess of action set-pieces and monologues punctuated by gratuitous violence. A surprise character introduction propels the story into a flashback that almost loses the audience. Character motivations and double crosses are revealed, but they seem more like a cheat than a revelation, and the narrative becomes a mess of unnecessary layers added to a story that already feels superficial.

To make matters worse, midway through the second act Tarantino inexplicably starts to narrate the film in his signature smug drawl. This decision has its roots in how the film came to fruition when Tarantino and company acted the script out in front of a live audience, but it’s just a glaring, gaudy example of how the writer/director can’t separate his public persona from his material.

Everybody gets a chance to shine in this ensemble cast: Walton Goggins gives a star-turning performance, Samuel L Jackson is an old, reliable face who carries the film through its long drags, Kurt Russell could play the old, grizzled, country hunter role on autopilot, although most of the rest feel more like archetypes than actual characters. Jennifer Jason Leigh, however, seems the most out of place as she spends most of the movie being a literal punching bag for the other characters, resulting in a perplexingly shallow role from Tarantino, who’s usually known for creating strong female protagonists. 

Although Tarantino has been criticized throughout his career for relishing in the macabre, his violence and mayhem always served a point. The Bride in Kill Bill needed to chop down all her opposition, the Inglorious Basterds were trained to match the brutal atrocities inflicted by the Germans, and even the countless thugs and gangsters of Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs showed the contradictory clash of evil and the mundane. The Hateful Eight, however, lacks that same subconscious understanding of violence and how it relates to the story. Despite all its bravado, long-winded monologues, and self-indulgent camera techniques, when the bullets and carnage start to fly, its self-indulgent violence feels unearned. 

The film is gorgeous to look at, punctuated by a haunting score by Ennio Morricone, his first western in 40 years, and it’s successful in capturing the claustrophobic atmosphere and overpowering sense of distrust. But that doesn’t justify the script’s narrative shortcomings. The Hateful Eight is a draft or revision away from being a great film, but Tarantino gets lost indulging himself once again. The result is a misfire; a disappointing film that doesn’t push the boundaries from a filmmaker once known for doing just that.