Max Victory’s review published on Letterboxd:
Tarantino's trademark mix of style and indulgence. When that indulgence is '60s/'70s era western tunes and orgiastic gunfights with blood splurting everywhere, it's a great time. When DiCaprio's scenes stretch into infinity, my attention wanders. Don't get me wrong, DiCaprio's caricature is initially terrific to watch smirk and strut his way through the material, but while Tarantino tries to recapture the same seething tension that Waltz delivered as a villain in Inglourious Basterds, that sense of danger that gripped me to my seat was accomplished with the editor's knife, from which Django Unchained was spared to its detriment. I guess it was too much fun watching DiCaprio ham it up.
To my taste the rest of the material is stronger, and in fact so strong that even a little paunch in the middle can't put me off it. It's just so damn satisfying to watch the camera lionize Foxx as he blows assholes away. There's no cloudy hand-wringing here, neither about the sadism of American racism nor about the sadistic pleasure of revenge. And points for the kickass costuming, too.