Tarantino's 8th offering to the big screen is about as lethargic as it is puerile.
The film consists of little else than endlessly talky routines, extremely poorly written and acted, which are more or less aimlessly heaped against a pile of inconsistent banality. At best we are looking at some form of performance art specifically tailored to torture its audience and at worst the disconcerting mental break down of what once was a very promising and upcoming director.
This wasn't a film, this was a masturbatory glorification of pulp writing to send home a single message, namely that Tarantino thinks his fans aren't worthy of his art. What this artist needs is professional council and not to be given two more chances to defecate even more on his own legacy, what's left of it anyway..
The film consists of little else than endlessly talky routines, extremely poorly written and acted, which are more or less aimlessly heaped against a pile of inconsistent banality. At best we are looking at some form of performance art specifically tailored to torture its audience and at worst the disconcerting mental break down of what once was a very promising and upcoming director.
This wasn't a film, this was a masturbatory glorification of pulp writing to send home a single message, namely that Tarantino thinks his fans aren't worthy of his art. What this artist needs is professional council and not to be given two more chances to defecate even more on his own legacy, what's left of it anyway..