As someone who has long maintained that Quentin Tarantino is the single most overrated, most infantile film-maker of our times and treats his audience with a contempt and a disdain that should have seen him relieved of his camera years ago, I was rather surprised by how much I enjoyed the first two-thirds of his latest effort. Meandering around both the streets of Los Angeles and the life of Leonardo Di Caprio’s superbly-portrayed, egotistical, out-of-luck actor, it teases the viewer with perplexing twists, unexpected diversions and a few deliciously recreated clips from fictitious old movies. Indeed, it is the confidence with which it plays narrative games – nearly always thwarting expectations – that is its strongest and most interesting feature. But the climax descends into more familiar Tarantino territory and ultimately leaves you wondering what the point of the whole, curious, lengthy exercise was in the first place. Not as moronic as some of his more lauded pieces, but even so: I won’t complain if I never watch anything by him again.