Review: A Lot to Love in 'The Hateful Eight'

The Civil War didn’t end at Appomattox, but still rages in the hearts and minds of Quentin Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight, a salty hothouse whodunit that owes as much to Agatha Christie as it does to Anthony Mann. Though Tarantino toys with many of the lawless frontier genre’s classic tropes, it’s arguable whether this deliciously long-winded mystery — “molasses-like,” to use his own term — qualifies as a Western at all. It might more aptly be considered an ongoing North-vs.-Southern,

the movie’s gender dynamics aren’t nearly as rich as its racial politics, though the latter subtext is what makes this more than just a fresh stew of Grindhouse leftovers, but a deserving hateful eighth entry in one of American cinema’s most distinctive filmographies.