Once Upon a Time...in Hollywood

Director Quentin Tarantino on the set

Tarantino on the set with actress Margot Robbie

Tarantino on the set with Leonardo DiCaprio

Tarantino on the set with DiCaprio and Brad Pitt

Tarantino at Cannes surrounded by DiCaprio (left to right), Margot Robbie, and Brad Pitt

ONCE UPON A TIME… IN HOLLYWOOD                C             

USA  Great Britain  China  (161 mi)  2019 ‘Scope d:  Quentin Tarantino         Official site

History may not look back too kindly on Quentin Tarantino, who exhibits a flair for flash, but missed decades of opportunities to actually offer something of consequence to say.  Instead his breezy style of macho mayhem fits the profile of overly privileged movie nerds raised on television and video games and B-movies, never having the patience to read books, so any introspective element is lacking in his films, as is empathy.  But his prolific use of the n-word throughout his career is clouded in highly stylized artificiality, as if that makes it OK, with a tin ear for criticism from those who took offense, not to mention his longtime partnership with movie producer Harvey Weinstein, whose near instant fall from grace was shocking, the producer of all of his films until now, the target of current litigation from endless scandals of sex abuse from using his position over multiple decades for sexual favors, resulting in dozens of actresses crying rape, with Tarantino acting dumb, pretending he had no idea.  Despite several films written for strong women (with roles that are almost interchangeable with men), Tarantino also has a tendency to underwrite female characters in his films, to treat them as if they barely exist, where bimbos and airheads pass for the norm.  This film is no exception.  For a guy who survives on dialogue and stereotypes, with an unadulterated love for grotesque violence and comic book revenge, he’s made a niche for himself and survived for decades, receiving adulation and acclaim around the world, bolstered by the extraordinary work of actor Samuel L. Jackson, who has built a career starring in Tarantino films, not to mention Pam Grier and Uma Thurman, but the pillorying of his work has not yet officially begun, as his films work best in the moment, and once that moment has passed they may not stand up so well to the passage of time, as most are overly smug, lightweight fantasies that will begin to date themselves, with each new generation wondering why people thought this was so cool, as there’s always a targeted group that is the butt of the jokes, accentuating derogatory comments that are equally offensive and obnoxious, which may grow more apparent over time.  The targeted group includes women, people of color, and foreigners from other nations, with very few viewed in a positive light, which sounds very close to the mindset currently occupying the Oval Office at the moment, with Tarantino perfectly in synch with that mentality, where his insults are like Trump tweets, seemingly boxing himself in.  Make America Great Again?  This movie was made with that same demographic in mind, where his once upon a time motif fondly recalls the nostalgia from a similar era, as there’s barely a person of color anywhere to be seen, as if designed for the exclusive pleasure of white people.  Only 6 when this supposedly takes place, Tarantino’s recollections produce a whitewashed 60’s that looked nothing like this (Where is all the soul music?  Was anyone listening to this particular Neil Diamond song?), as Los Angeles is a town of diversity, where his vision of the times leaves out essential specificity that actually defines this period of time, so it’s not really a love letter to Hollywood or the times, more like an internalized message to the director himself, perhaps filling some therapeutic need, where making a movie about Patty Hearst will be next, recast as THE BAD SEED (1956).  Nonetheless this colorful movie fantasia is shot on glorious 35mm in ‘Scope, immersed in neon signs, vintage cars, radio jingles, movie posters, iconic music, and meticulously recreated TV shows, including the dumb ads, yet also tinged with intentional racial slurs, this time laced in a toxic undercurrent of animus towards Mexicans, Asians, and “the fucking hippies” (always said with a sneer).            

There are multiple parallels in place here, all triggered by the idea of an aging Hollywood star whose time has come and gone, which certainly fits movie mogul Harvey Weinstein who’s been expelled from the Academy as damaged goods, but may also be applicable to the director himself who may view his career coming to an end as well (allegedly one more in the works), with many believing this plays out like his swan song.  Meant to be a feel-good fantasy set in the nostalgia of the year 1969 as the rebellious counterculture movement (no sign of it here) was coming to an end, Tarantino saves for last his own take on the hideous Charles Manson murders that rocked Hollywood, defined as the culminating event that many believe brought that era of idealism and hope prematurely crashing to a close, a kind of punctuation to the political assassinations that took the lives of the era’s greatest hopes.  This trip back through memory lane features a couple of good ‘ol boys in the lead, Leonardo DiCaprio as aging Western star Rick Dalton and Brad Pitt as Cliff Booth, his stunt double, both joined at the hip, seemingly going everywhere together, where the deal is if you hire one, you hire the other as a kind of bonus.  From the world of movie sets, a kind of protected bubble that thrives on fantasy, the story is, as the title suggests, more of the same, a kind of preposterous revisionist history that Tarantino has come to exemplify, from the Nazi’s in INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS (2009) to slavery in Django Unchained (2012), and now the Manson derelects.  In each, evil is perceived as an abomination that needs to be eradicated from the earth, much like the epic Bible rant that Samuel L. Jackson goes on in Pulp Fiction (1994) before he blows somebody away, using fake scripture to morally justify murder.  That may be, in essence, the theme of Tarantino movies, creating a revenge scenario as a moral cleansing, ridding the world of evil incarnate, gleefully depicting murders onscreen for laughs and public entertainment, where the world is just an extension of a comic book fantasy.  This film never gets out from under that bubble, but in Tarantino-land that’s what we’ve come to expect.  Starting out as another day on a movie set, we quickly learn Dalton made a name for himself on the popular TV show Bounty Law, known for bringing in wanted outlaws returned as corpses for the reward money, where his notoriety grows by the body count accumulated in the course of his job.  These black and white episodes, viewed as boxed squares on a ‘Scope screen, are balanced by insipid commercials of the time, including a live TV interview with both Dalton and Booth on the set of the show.  Quickly moving to the present, the self-pitying Dalton is haunted by the thought that his best days are behind him, missing his lines, screwing up on the set, embarrassing himself before the crew, something he once thought unthinkable, tearing up the inside of his trailer in a momentary lapse of reason, but he recovers, with the help of a precocious young 8-year old actress named Trudi (Julia Butters) who calls him out on being called a “pumpkin puss,” yet ends the day in glory, with everyone thrilled with his work, while Booth returns home in an old beat-up Porsche that he whizzes around the hills to the music of Deep Purple, Deep Purple - Hush - YouTube (4:25), living out in the valley somewhere in a trailer on what looks like unused land behind a drive-in theater with his pit bull, which is miraculously well-trained to the sounds of his owner, easily one of the film’s biggest surprises, becoming a bonafide star by the end, while the dog food labels are a hoot.

While Dalton is suffering a midlife crisis, Booth is the picture of calm reassurance, giving his hung-over partner a pep talk before dropping him off on the set, making easy eye contact with a flirtatious female hitchhiker on the street, but he’s not going her way, heading instead for the Hollywood Hills to fix Rick’s TV antenna that may have come off its moorings in the night.  Finding a tool belt with a special pocket for a beer, he hops onto the roof in three leaps without a ladder, an eye-catching move that draws oohs and aahs from the audience, followed almost immediately by another moment when Brad Pitt pulls his shirt off and suns himself on the roof (more murmurs from viewers), showing he is completely at ease with himself and the world.  From that vantage point up on the roof Booth watches a seemingly innocuous occurrence, as some hippie guy pulls up in a broken-down ice-cream truck and knocks at the house next door, turning out to be Charles Manson (Damon Herriman) in search of Terry Melcher, a record producer known for the California sound, but he’d moved out some time ago, as the new occupants are newlyweds actress Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie), seen dancing in her room to “Good Thing” by Paul Revere and the Raiders, Paul Revere And The Raiders Good Thing - YouTube (3:01), one of the groups Melcher produced, and her husband, legendary filmmaker Roman Polanski, director of the hugely successful Rosemary's Baby (1968).  Manson leaves without incident, but sets the stage for what happens later.  Meanwhile, Booth recalls earlier days, including a flashback of what originated his reputation as a wife-killer, revealing an ominous moment just before it happened, alone on a boat calmly aiming a harpoon at his shrill, nagging wife, eventually cleared of all charges, but that hasn’t stopped some from refusing to work with him.  While waiting on the set of a shoot, Bruce Lee (Mike Moh), who was starring at the time as Kato on the TV series The Green Hornet, was talking some shit about how he would have ripped apart boxer Cassius Clay as his hands are registered as lethal weapons, drawing a snicker from Booth, who is quickly challenged to a fight, showing his prowess, displaying fighting dexterity when he throws Lee into the side of a car parked nearby, doing damage to them both, with Zoë Bell the stunt coordinator outraged at what she sees, screaming profanities afterwards, as it’s her car, firing Booth on the spot.  She’s the wife of Kurt Russell, who hired Booth as a favor to Dalton, who then becomes an unseen narrator later in the film, which is a rather clever transition, as are the scenes of Dalton imagining he got the Steve McQueen part in THE GREAT ESCAPE (1963), which are seamlessly (and digitally) juxtaposed into the movie.  This happens again with Sharon Tate, almost always seen with a perpetual smile on her face, with no worries whatsoever, on a natural high apparently, walking into an afternoon screening of a rather mediocre Dean Martin film she’s in, the last of the Matt Helm series entitled THE WRECKING CREW (1968), using her wannabe celebrity status to get in for free, propping her feet up and clearly enjoying watching herself onscreen, which includes interacting with actual clips of Sharon Tate.  Later we see Polanski and Tate partying with Michelle Phillips, Mama Cass and other celebrities around the pool at the Playboy mansion, with Steve McQueen bellyaching about how he’s not Tate’s type, as she seems to prefer little short guys that look like they’re still in high school.  The irony, of course, is that McQueen was invited to the Tate/Polanski residence the night of the bloody massacre, but never showed up.

All this is basically a backdrop for what seems like a harmless visit to the Spahn Movie Ranch, where Bounty Law was shot, with Booth finally picking up that hitchhiker, Pussycat (Margaret Qualley), who sells him an acid cigarette for 50 cents, quickly finding the lot inhabited by hippies and weirdos, given a near surreal look, almost like a zombie movie or a Twilight Zone episode, utilizing the macabre reputation surrounding the Manson family to heighten the suspense, as they’re inhabiting the place, but acting strangely, overly paranoid about receiving visitors, always sensing trouble.  When Booth persists about visiting the aging George Spahn (Bruce Dern), who owns the place, it all gets very creepy, as this group of misfits doesn’t like confrontation, viewing it savagely, as it does with all authority, preferring to live by their own rules.  This extended scene takes place at a snail’s pace, but establishes the central thread of psychotic hatred lurking on the periphery, mostly out of sight, hiding under a pretentious banner of hippie peace and love, but exceedingly dangerous.  After watching Dalton make a guest appearance on a The F.B.I. TV show, Al Pacino makes a cameo as an unbelievably weird and overly enthusiastic producer/agent Marvin Schwarz, who wants Dalton to star in spaghetti westerns, suggesting he can turn his career around from being the heavy that gets killed in movies to the hero that does the killing, but he’d have to spend some time in Italy, which for Hollywood actors is the kiss of death, as low as you can get, believing it’s proof your career is over.  After a successful 6-month run, however, and a new Italian wife (Lorenza Izzo, almost nonexistent), the two old friends decide the time has come to part ways, getting good and drunk, with Tarantino pulling off one of those signature shots with a sequence of different marquees lighting up, matched by his love for the look of old movie houses and vintage cars, giving the film a retro look.  The way it all plays out in the end begins innocently enough with Booth smoking that acid cigarette in Dalton’s home, figuring what the hell, taking his dog for a walk while Dalton goes ballistic when a group of hippies pulls up to the cul-de-sac in front of his house with the muffler smoking noxious fumes, ordering them to get the hell out of there, figuring they got lost and were just a bunch of jerks.  When the Manson bunch finally get their act in gear (depicted here as buffoons), it stretches credulity, even for a fantasy, set to the psychedelic music of Vanilla Fudge, Vanilla Fudge - You Keep Me Hanging On - YouTube (7:25), becoming a wildly over-the-top exaggeration of fortunes gone wrong, much like the heist gone wrong story that started it all in RESERVOIR DOGS (1992), with Booth’s dog turning into Rin Tin Tin on steroids, nearly singlehandedly wiping out the entire Manson crew, turning deliriously violent to the point of absurdity, with one drunk guy and the other tripping on acid somehow managing to save the day, and the world, from the Manson mayhem that so demoralized Hollywood for a while, petrified by the vicious scope of their aims, stunned by their depravity and total absence of remorse.  It was an end to innocence and any traces left of the American Dream, turned into a Mad magazine comic sketch in a Tarantino movie.  The irony is that Manson had actually plotted to start a race war, killing rich Hollywood celebrities, drawing plenty of attention, making it look like the Black Panthers did it, leaving paw prints and the word “PIG”in blood on the wall, hoping to turn the world into utter chaos and annihilation, stoking the flames, hoping to leave an opening for their group to fill the power vacuum, a deluded dream if ever there was one, but it’s not that different than what finally graces the screen, gruesome, emptyheaded and outrageous, but selling popcorn and tickets. 

The Mustang

Director Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre

one of the correctional inmates from the WHIP program

THE MUSTANG                   B                    

France  USA  (96 mi)  2019 d: Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre

There is no religion without love, and people may talk as much as they like about their religion, but if it does not teach them to be good and kind to man and beast, it is all a sham.

—John Manly from Black Beauty, Pt. 1 Chapter 13, a novel by Anna Sewell, 1877

Anyone who’s seen the devastating round-up scene of wild mustangs in John Huston’s The Misfits (1961) has an inkling of what’s happening here, as both take place in the emptiness of the Nevada desert, paying homage to the fierce independent streak of horses that continue to thrive on their own out in open country, with this film suggesting as many as 100,000 of them currently roam free.  With some impressive cinematography by Ruben Impens, an opening sequence registers a thrill of seeing horses in their element running freely through the vast openness of the desert, a symbol of the American West, yet in the backdrop of the snow-covered Sierra Nevada mountains off in the distance a helicopter herds them into a trap where they are stuck like sardines in a tiny pen, traumatized and vehemently frustrated by the tight restrictions, ultimately placed in a truck and driven away.  What this turns into, however, is an examination of our criminal justice system, as we herd people into similar psychologically traumatizing situations, warehoused into tiny prison cells, treated like animals, and then somehow “the system” expects them to turn into productive human beings.  While the metaphor may be blunt and heavy-handed, the assuredness of this first time director is surprisingly effective, drawing people into the heart of the matter without sermonizing.  Well-paced, with evocative music from Jed Kurzel, evolving from a 2017 story in The New York Times, Wild Horses and the Inmates Who 'Gentle' Them - The New York Times, at the center of the picture is Matthias Schoenaerts as Roman Coleman in one of the performances of the year, utterly brilliant in Michaël R. Roskam’s 2012 Top Ten Films of the Year: #6 Bullhead (Rundskop), The Drop (2014), and the more recent Racer and the Jailbird (Le Fidèle) (2017), but also Jacques Audiard’s Rust and Bone (De rouille et d'os) (2011), where his hulking physique often defines his roles.  Not usually much for small talk, he’s even more reticent here, where he appears damaged beyond repair, transferred from a lengthy period in solitary confinement to the regular prison population, yet in a screening interview with the prison psychologist (Connie Britton) his defiant resistance to communicate is remarkable, largely numb to the rest of the world, displaying an inner ferocity, with something angrily registering underneath his unwilling demeanor, basically suggesting he doesn’t do well with people.  With that understanding, he’s assigned to outdoor maintenance, basically shoveling horse manure all day in pens housing these captured mustangs, with a select group of inmates taming and grooming them before they’re auctioned off to ranchers and policemen, including border patrol duty.  But what captures Coleman’s curiosity is an unruly horse locked into tight constraints, repeatedly kicking at the walls, where he can’t help but investigate, as he and this horse appear to share a similar contempt for confinement.

Shot at the abandoned Nevada State Prison in Carson City that shut down a few years ago as a new facility was built nearby, it initially feels weird that they literally throw inmates into the pen with untamed horses without an ounce of training, as if they’re supposed to pick it up on instinct, yet a crusty old-timer, Myles (Bruce Dern), the civilian head of the program (aka WHIP, Wild Horse Inmate Program, which exists in 6 Western states), noticed Coleman’s earlier interest in the obstinate horse, thinking maybe these two intractable minds think alike, yet he shows little aptitude.  Encouraged by one of the prisoners, Henry, Jason Mitchell from Mudbound (2017) and Straight Outta Compton (2015), who views himself as the best horse trainer in the facility, offering quick instructions on the fly, telling him to move in sync with the horse, like dance moves, but no progress is made.  When Myles shouts out instructions to take control, rather than move into the horse’s space, Coleman sends a flurry of punches directly at the animal, which gets him quickly kicked out of the program, with Myles spewing he’ll add ten years to his sentence if that ever happens again.  Nonetheless, he spent some quality time with the animal, more than anyone else, with the horse remaining proudly defiant.  There are other narratives within the prison, which includes a visit from his daughter, Martha (Gideon Adlon, impressive), who remains standoffish, clearly having unresolved issues with her father, but his signature is needed to sell the house, as he certainly has no use of it, yet whatever the cause of their underlying friction remains unspoken, providing no backstory.  Nonetheless, the tension between them adds a dramatic extension to the film, broadening the gap of his dysfunction.  Martha offers no sympathy whatsoever, is stone cold, herself, playing it dead serious throughout, never giving her father even an inch.  Similarly, there is a drug smuggling ring inside the prison stealing Ketamine, an animal tranquilizer drug kept for the horses, which some prisoners use to get high (and has other effective uses, none more startling than this story, Thai cave rescuers, who sedated boys, coach to get them out ...), coercing others, including Coleman, implying something sinister could happen to his daughter if he doesn’t go along, as they know where she lives.  This kind of extortion runs rampant in prison systems, with inmates constantly under threat, with outside gang connections used to establish advantages inside, applying common terror tactics when needed to amp up the pressure.  In addition, there is underlying racial friction, with blacks and whites maintaining their own separate space, seen constantly antagonizing each other out in the prison yard, like a powder keg about to explode.  This is the real beauty of the film, an examination of a toxic male culture, where it’s an astute and intriguing analysis of what happens inside American prison walls, particularly coming from a European director.       

External circumstances create a diversion, as a huge wind storm erupts, spooking the animals, with all hands on deck bringing them to covered shelter, including Coleman and his recalcitrant horse, raising the eyebrows of Myles who offers him another chance afterwards.  Still, the horse refuses to respond, exhausting the patience of Coleman, who’s never tasted success inside the pen, thwarted at every turn, encouraged by Henry who reminds him, “If you want to control your horse, first you gotta control yourself.”  This may as well be the mantra for altering the direction in his life, as up until now he’s continually been banging his head against the wall, exerting his will, but the wall never budges.  Only once he’s finally stymied, reduced to a man stewing in his own personal failures, sitting alone on an upside down bucket literally talking to himself does the horse finally come around and acknowledge his presence.  Pent-up rage and macho gesturing got him absolutely nowhere, but once he finally settled down and allowed the horse to come to him, this established some mutual trust.  After a few minor mishaps, Coleman was assigned to the program, one of the selected few allowed to participate, where the underlying principle is the developing relationship with the animal helps teach empathy, with brutish men often feeling more at ease with their horses than any of the people within the prison compound.  At the same time, more meetings with the psychologist leads to group sessions, some of which are interesting, especially when she asks each of them how long it took to make the decision that ultimately led them into prison.  With most it was no more than a few seconds, and in Coleman’s case, a split second.  It’s an agonizing road to realize how much has been lost by that split decision.  However, in the next visit with Martha, Coleman is eager to make amends, excited to tell her about the progress with his horse, acknowledging his crimes and trying to painfully accept responsibility, offering the first signs of reconciliation, and while it’s among the more moving scenes of the film, she’s not easily moved, reminding him in graphic detail what he forced her life to become, leaving him a shell of himself afterwards, as he simply has no answers.  Yet it’s moments like this that make this film relevant, as there’s no right way or wrong way, and no easy path, but at least it’s a beginning.  There’s a stirring sequence when we hear Martha in voiceover read aloud letters she wrote to her father when she was much younger, when she still had hope, when he was still her father, when he meant something to her, but that was long ago.  Since then much time has passed, leaving him with an open wound that may never heal, and he has no one else to blame but himself.  It’s a startling revelation that must happen to so many men locked up for lengthy sentences, like a light bulb finally turning on, and perhaps for the first time they realize the full extent of what’s been lost.  While there are other stirring moments, even a kind of mythical Black Beauty kinship established with the horse, they feel more contrived and of lesser value, though the WHIP program itself has helped significantly reduce the rate of repeat offenders, yet what seems to matter most is taking an honest assessment of yourself and the crime you’ve committed.  The sad fact is there are plenty more like Coleman, a revolving door of new faces filling the prison cells while he slowly works through his issues in a tiny rectangular cell out in the middle of nowhere, where redemption only happens with a thorough cleansing of the soul.