THE HATEUL EIGHT

Its opening credits remind us that the vengeance-minded Western The Hateful Eight is “the 8th film by Quentin Tarantino.” That’s actually helpful. Because by the time the closing credits roll some two-and-three-quarter-hours later (the movie’s 70-millimeter “roadshow” version lasting some 20 minutes more), you’d swear it was at least the 28th film by Quentin Tarantino. I admire the man’s output to no end, and five of his seven previous features are firmly entrenched amidst my 10 favorites for their particular years. But despite its flashes of brilliance, I found myself as annoyed with The Hateful Eight as I was with 2012’s Django Unchained, and for much the same reason: its auteur, by now, appears so immersed in the act of loving Quentin Tarantino that he leaves almost no room for us to love him, or his films, back.

During my extended holiday stay in the Chicago area, I saw a fantastic movie, a sizable disappointment, and an utter clunker. But as Carol, Legend, and The Danish Girl aren't currently playing at a theater near you (at least if you live in the Quad Cities region), let's instead focus on the other fantastic movie, sizable disappointment, and utter clunker I saw.

SISTERS

Sisters is about two 40-something siblings (Tina Fey and Amy Poehler) who, on the eve of its selling, decide to throw one last, big, balls-out get-together in the Orlando home of their youth. And the movie feels like some debaucherous parties that you might've thrown: It's awesome at the start, intermittently enjoyable while it's happening, and the people who showed up don't seem to understand when it's time for them to just leave already. As with such parties, you're not all that upset that they decided to stick around - you're happy they came. But less of them, and their being less wasted, would've definitely been more, just as director Jason Moore's two-hour comedy would've likely been a stronger, more satisfying entertainment if it clocked in at 90 minutes, and had given us fewer scenes with Fey and Poehler in hostess mode.

KRAMPUS

What kind of sick bastard invented the jack-in-the-box? I mean, really: You turn a crank and hear an off-key rendition of "Pop Goes the Weasel," and, the moment you're most lulled into its creaky sing-song, a freaking clown jumps out at you?! As children's toys go, this one's just the worst - and, in its scary/funny way, also kind of the best. The same could be said for the new horror comedy Krampus, which, in one memorable scene, employs a jack-in-the-box for maximum giggles and shrieks. It's a blunt and mostly clumsy piece of work, but also admirably creepy and sometimes very funny, and definitely one of the livelier yuletide-themed films of its type since Gremlins.