Not recommended. The sumptuous opening minutes of The Hateful Eight are promising. This is a Quentin Tarantino (Kill Bill) Western, in Ultra-Panavision (How The West Was Won), played to a Ennio Morricone’s (Il Buono, Il Brutto, Il Cattivo) score. We’ve waited 23 years for this. And the set-up also looks sweet, Kurt Russell (Grindhouse), cheerfully abusive . . . Sam Jackson (Pulp Fiction), “Hell, yeah!” But the homage to Sergio Leone stops there, as the characters crowd into a snowbound stagecoach way-station that starts looking like a Tarantino warehouse in east LA. Tim Roth and Michael Madsen (Reservoir Dogs) are even waiting up for them, but at 1000 kilowatts-hours less energy. Only Jennifer-Jason Leigh seems charged up. The Hateful Eight spills buckets more blood, bloody barf and brain matter than any spaghetti Western but with very little Leone pizzazz. This seems to be a disappointing trend in Tarantino’s recent offerings; perhaps he’s bleeding out.