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.
