The reason for the crawl and slither of these later scenes is plain: the director is coiling himself, as is his wont, for an apocalypse of blood. Dr. Schultz triggers it with one brief deed. “I couldn’t resist,” he says, and that mix of mock-apology and merry boast is purest Tarantino. He has such a fine eye, and his travelling shots of horses and riders are a hint of what tremendous cowboy flicks he might have made, in a straighter age, but his films continue to be snared in a tangle of morality and style. Tarantino is dangerously in love with the look of evil, and all he can counter it with is cool—not strength of purpose, let alone goodness of heart, but simple comeuppance, issued with merciless panache. That is what Django delivers, and it’s the least that Candie deserves, together with other defenders of the Southern status quo: such, at any rate, will be the claim of Tarantino’s fans, although I was disturbed by their yelps of triumphant laughter, at the screening I attended, as a white woman was blown away by Django’s gun. By the time Tarantino shows up as a redneck with an unexplained Australian accent, “Django Unchained” has mislaid its melancholy, and its bitter wit, and become a raucous romp. It is a tribute to the spaghetti Western, cooked al dente, then cooked a while more, and finally sauced to death.