It’s far from being his best, but Tarantino’s latest is a Western with a delicious and dangerous difference In the stewpot of Quentin Tarantino’s tough-to-chew ingredients: graphic violence, racial animosity (if not racist hyperbole), linguistic provocation (counting the “n” word has become a sort of a game), indulgence in profanity and political incorrectness of all stripe, then in The Hateful Eight, the nearly threehour-long film is largely set in just one room. Heads smashed, women bashed, scrotum busted, black-man-white-man paranoia in full display – the director’s well-oiled strategy is to couch his exploitation exercise in cynical black comedy and gabby digressions – those delicious, funny, grandiloquent lectures on history and justice that he lately seems to favour