Any Tarantino-loving film-goer might reasonably expect a US film about gamblers, hookers and cold-blooded killings to speed by in a hail of gunfire and wisecracks. The anticipation that Hard Eight could be special is heightened with the presence of Samuel L Jackson, and an opening scene set in the sort of diner where Tim Roth and Amanda Plummer might be plotting a robbery at the next table. But Hard Eight doesn't zip by; it crawls past like a film with a fatal gunshot wound to the belly. And the lines aren't polished wisecracks at all - they're the type of dull misfires you might unearth in Quentin's bulging wastebasket.
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