Revoke Tarantino’s Artistic License

Since 1992, film aficionados have had a cinematic crush on Quentin Tarantino.

His engaging dialogue, cinematic movement and penchant for bringing actors from yesteryear back into the critical and cultural spotlight rightly make for compelling films that spur discussions among fans.

Yes, his films are extremely violent, but supporters would say that he uses blood like a painter’s palette. Swearing and racial slurs are merely texture to his genius.

More than 20 years later, though, maybe Tarantino shouldn’t have quite the same artistic license. Perhaps now is the time to expect more maturity and substance out of a man who clearly has a master’s understanding of film.

There’s no doubt 1992’s “Reservoir Dogs” and 1994’s “Pulp Fiction” represented a coming out party for Tarantino, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in decades. His flair for profane prose, timeline jumping and the ability to portray protagonists as likable people was extraordinary. This catapulted him into the upper echelon of working directors where he was given the keys to his own castle.

Giving an artist complete freedom to make whatever they want without restriction can be a blessing or a curse. Without that freedom, we wouldn’t have exposure to forgotten chapters in film history like “Kill Bill” and “Death Proof,” which brought grind house cinema back into the public consciousness. “Inglourious Basterds” may have been Tarantino’s cathartic fulfillment wish come to life.

On the other hand, freedom of this degree naturally lends itself to self-indulgence. In Tarantino’s case, he has ventured so far beyond self-indulgence that he is now firmly in cinematically hedonistic territory.

“Django Unchained” was so focused on exacting cinematic revenge on the perpetrators of slavery that it completely missed an opportunity to be transcendent. With 30 minutes left in the film, Django could have left with his friend and wife still alive and live happily ever after, having accomplished everything he sought and returning to the life he dreamed of living.

Instead, the conclusion involved an extra half hour of senseless bloodshed that resulted in the death of his best friend, but no apparent toll on himself.

Arguably, the only character in the auteur’s filmography to ever experience regret and the impulse to make amends was Jules, played by Samuel L. Jackson, in “Pulp Fiction.” In none of the rest of Tarantino’s films is there an ounce of regret or remorse from anyone freely killing people left and right.

Compare that to Park Chan-Wook’s legendary “Vengeance Trilogy,” released in the early 2000s — three films that explore the toll revenge can take on a person’s soul and loved ones. Or, Ingmar Bergman’s “The Virgin Spring,” which forces a father to be confronted with his daughter’s killers in the context of his newfound Christian faith. By offering a takeaway lesson, these films are elevated from titillating moving pictures on a big screen to a true art form that delves into what makes us human.

With this week’s wide release of “The Hateful Eight,” Tarantino’s largesse is on full display again. Filmed in Panavision 70 mm, the film’s amazing landscapes are a visual masterpiece.

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Unfortunately, the rest of the film is filled with epithet spewing racists, remorseless murderers behind every corner, and not a single character to root for or even be invested in. With the roadshow cut of the film coming in at over three hours, calling it a bloated mess would be an understatement.

Even worse, it makes Tarantino look like a one-trick pony. After more than two decades, the incidence of bloodshed without a moral inquiry is tired.

Tarantino has proven himself adept at creating characters who grab the audience by the shirt collar and take them for a ride through an ugly world they might otherwise not like to face. Until he proves he can make those characters worth journeying with, however, the trip has lost its appeal.