Whatever the technical genius Quentin Tarantino brings to his joints, he can't escape the formula of unthinking entertainment to say anything of import or longevity. You realize this every time you detach from the violence and sexiness that pleases your monkey brain and ask yourself what the hell it is you're watching. When the end credits roll to mood heightening music with lyrics suggestive of the slippery slide of the male ego, you can all but applaud at how clever it is, but just as quick you might realize how empty this cleverness is, much like the pop song it employs as a shortcut to preconscious emotion. Your average film buff will have a giggle, but no matter how much I enjoy his stuff, I can't care enough to rate him as more than a "talented shit" with nothing to say.
Suckas!
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