Oof. It is a ninth movie from and by Quentin Tarantino, assuming Deathproof counts as a movie, and assuming the two volumes of Kill Bill are one movie combined. Fortunately, there's just one more movie left to endure, as Tarantino regresses away from entertaining fare, grinding out the cinematic equivalents of long-avoided dental work.

We are treated to an early Wilhelm Scream, a modest suggestion that we, the audience, are about to be bathed in 161 minutes of fun, winks and nudges, pastiches and homages, and a wistful sentimentality, all of which will make us pine for simpler times when love was free, hippies always kinda sucked, and men's men smoked real cigarettes which must be lit with fire.

The first hour or so meanders aimlessly in what seems to be a "Deer Hunter-esque" exposition to introduce us to vapid characters and their nostalgic milieu. Cars go places, people have conversations, Margot Robbie's talents go wasted, and shots of shoes and feet remind us that people do walk around at times, and Tarantino literally likes to shove his foot fetish in our faces.

What is the purpose of pasting together assorted scenes which are tips of caps to better, more iconic originals? Why do we have to see dirty hippie feet smashed into windshields, as if it means something more than it is? Why is violence against women reproduced comically? What is orange and looks good on hippies?

Tarantino caught lightning in a bottle with Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, and Jackie Brown. Someone let all that energy dissipate out into a wading pool of fecklessness, never to be recaptured again.