Well, maybe "works out the delicate thread of false logic" isn't quite the right phrase for what Mannix does, but to my mind the suggestiveness of the scene calls out for a slightly different interpretation.
The essential challenge presented to every character in the story at a number of junctions is whether or not to believe someone is representing themselves in a genuine manner––regardless of whether or not they are lying. The point that is stressed many times over the course of the film is that, even though characters don't actually trust one another, or even suspect one another of actively lying, they make pacts and bargains that are tantamount to trusting one another. They do this, from the moment John Ruth decides to let Major Warren ride his carriage onwards, because they evaluate the characters they're facing and determine to what degree their representation of themselves aligns with what they perceive to be advantageous motives. In other words, John Ruth lets Major Warren ride with him not because he believes Warren's vague story about losing his horse, but because John Ruth believes Warren to be someone essentially worthy of trust; someone who shares enough of John Ruth's personal values to make him a worthy collaborator.
In a sense, Warren goes on to prove worthy of that trust, completing the task John Ruth was unable to finish, at great risk and pain to himself.
Mannix faces a challenge of evaluation similar to John Ruth's,
when Daisy Domergue tries to convince him to turn on Major Warren. The question is whether or not Domergue is more worthy of trust than Major Warren, and the risk is that Domergue is telling the truth, or that Warren maybe has another agenda of some sort––he's been supplying new motivations as the film progresses, and the tension between Mannix and Warren is enhanced because the two of them have resented one another up until Mannix's point of crisis. So Mannix looks for a way in which one character's argument points to an inherent level of trustworthiness or untrustworthiness, and he is able to do so by a feat of some reasoning. He's able to determine that Daisy saw the coffee being poisoned and kept the secret, and he comes to realize that Daisy was going to let him be poisoned along with John Ruth. It tips Daisy's hand, so to speak, and reveals the degree to which she is a viable collaborator with Mannix––put it plain, she is not Mannix's best ally. She aspires to destruction, whereas Mannix and Warren both turn out to be standing for essential order. Warren goes on to prove he is worthy of Mannix's trust by asking that they see John Ruth's purpose to its conclusion, and hang Daisy. There's a way in which Mannix, whether he is really the new sheriff of Red Rock or not, becomes the sheriff and executes his duty in the hanging of Domergue.
To me the film is an interesting companion to
Inglorious Basterds (the Tarantino film I think is the richest and most transporting). The majority of the scenes in
Basterds are a series of interrogations in various settings, by various people. The scenes in
Hateful Eight are all a series of needling, detective-like questioning sessions, ensconced in roughly the same setting throughout. In
Basterds, characters inspire fear in their interrogations by fronting a kind of public identity they've created for themselves, which is inherently terrifying or awe-inspiring to the interogatees: Jew Hunter, Bastards, Bear Jew, war hero, movie star, despot, etc. In
Hateful Eight, characters present a front for themselves, portraying themselves as one thing to hide the secrets they all contain. The interrogations in
Basterds are all to intimidate other characters, to awe them with reputation, with the suggestion of identity. The interrogations in
Hateful Eight are all detective-like queries to reveal the true identity of behind the false front characters present. The Bastards are heroes in
Inglourious Basterds, in spite of the heinous violence they commit, in spite of their obstinate courseness, because they are true to the image they have created. Hans Landa, who is initially proud of his "Jew Hunter" moniker, is eager to disown it at the end of the film. The Bastards have a conviction that goes beyond pretense, which is why they remain the central figures in a film where nearly all the key action is undertaken by others.
Hateful Eight has characters whose basic presentation of self is a detailed deception, and the question hanging over each character in the film is to what degree the available perception of who they are speaks to their true motivations. In a sense, both films query the stability of pure identity, in the face of variegated public presentation of identity. Both films present characters who, rather than being heroes or villains, are divided between those with solid, clear identities beneath their disguises and characters whose motivations are more plastic and nonlinear. There is also a number of conscious stylistic resemblances between
Inglourious Basterds and
Hateful Eight which suggest to me that Tarantino is consciously building
Hateful Eight in relationship to what he was doing with
Inglourious Basterds.
After a lot of the hate directed at the film on this board, I really expected not to enjoy it, but in fact I very much enjoyed
Hateful Eight. I don't like every Tarantino movie––I'm not too deeply interested in
Reservoir Dogs or
Django Unchained, and was actively dispirited by
Kill Bill––but I would place
Hateful Eight amongst the ones I enjoy most, along with
Inglourious Basterds, Jackie Brown, and
Pulp Fiction. Those films have a richness that makes for revealing repeat viewings, and I think
Hateful Eight will have that quality of deepening interest as well. I didn't think the violence was more intense than similar scenes in
Inglourious Basterds, and the gore didn't seem as over-the-top as the gore in films by Peter Jackson, or Greg Araki, or Julie Taymor, to choose a few names generally less derided than Tarantino's. The Tarantino narration did not come across as jarring to me (it sounded like he was delivering an Agatha Christie adaptation at a dinner theater, which seemed to me like what he was going for); rather, it seemed to enrich the novelistic organizational chapter structure, which forces you to address the separate sections of the film in differing ways based upon the chapter headings. I thought the performances were exceedingly good––very meaty and rich––and Walter Goggins seemed to be dancing to his own inspired music, in the way of some of the colorful supporting actors in westerns of the 70s. The rougher editing style of
Django Unchained gave way here to a more elegant style, reminiscent of Sally Menke's work on the earlier Tarantino films. To me the editing was almost as decisive and rich as in the Menke films––a quality that seemed on the wane in
Django Unchained. The music in
Hateful Eight seemed appropriate enough to me––though it does seem to take something away from Tarantino when he has a soundtrack that matches the action like a traditional film score. The score Morricone provides is pretty sedate. I didn't dislike it, per se, and it did seem pretty fitting. At any rate, I found the film moving, as much because it was unafraid of being ugly as because of its themes and its style. It so happened I saw
Carol on the same day, and the two films went considerably far to restore my faith in the possibility of interesting, engaging Hollywood films––something else that has waned in the last few years. It's only two pictures, sure; but they were both exciting enough to make it a real moment for me.
Then again, you're the fanboy that found deep meaning in junk like Inglorious Basterds...