★★★★★
Rewatched Jul 27, 2019
Original post: https://boxd.it/M2cCn
When a young director scores critical acclaim with a breakout hit movie, it’s a revelation; but when an aging auteur champions one of their most expensive and star-studded projects to date, expectations take on a life of their own, long before opening weekend kicks off. Frequenters of Twitter.com know that debating and ranking the entries of beloved directors is nothing new within passionate fandoms, but when it comes to film-bro golden boy Quentin Tarantino, everyone’s got an opinion. (You gotta have an opinion!) And what usually starts as friendly discourse can swiftly enter Mexican standoff territory. Now if you’ve seen a Tarantino flick before (or eight), you might head into your first screening of Once Upon a Time in... Hollywood with some expectations yourself. Memorable characters; structural playfulness; gorgeous cinematography; snappy dialogue loaded with pop-culture references; and deliberate over-the-top violence— these are surely in the forecast. But will it be as original as Pulp Fiction? As tender as Jackie Brown? As elegant as Kill Bill? As cathartically violent as Inglorious Basterds or Django Unchained? As gruesome as The Hateful Eight? How will it compare to and enrich the canon of the others? Masses of people aren’t collectively wonderstruck in anticipation for most art, but like Avengers: Endgame before it, this 9th Tarantino film, playing in theaters now, is a big freakin deal for a lot of people, myself included.
Since word spread in early 2017 that Tarantino was cooking up a new movie set in 1969 Hollywood that would take on the Manson Family Murders and partially center around Sharon Tate, rumors took on a life of their own. Then when Margot Robbie was eventually confirmed to be cast in the part of Ms. Tate, the ensuing speculation exploded over how specifically she would be depicted (with some suggesting she’d be the main character), and how the depraved events of 50 years ago would be contextualized through Tarantino’s artistic worldview, despite QT alleging from the beginning that “its being misrepresented as a Manson film.”
Indeed, the film is instead mostly focussed on a certain struggling TV cowboy, Rick Dalton— next-door neighbor of Tate and her new hubby Roman Polanski— and his best mate stunt double Cliff Booth, played by Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt respectively. As the duo attempt to resurrect their stardom before it’s too late and they’re prematurely forgotten, Robbie’s Tate periodically graces the screen, living life with a bubbly flare and joyousness that acts as a foil to Dalton’s self-conscious dread regarding his career mortality. Rick and Cliff are fictional characters, but they feel authentic within this particular vision of late-60’s Los Angeles, vividly reimagined by Tarantino (who would’ve been 6-7 years old in ’69), painstakingly recreated through incredible funkadelic set pieces and costume design, and captured on celluloid by QT’s right-hand cameraman Robert Richardson. The Hollywood they inhabit is a fleeting memory of a moment in Los Angeles history that looks and sounds nearly impossible to my California-uninitiated innocent-‘90s-baby eyes and ears: Denim and Leather everywhere; Deep Purple, Neil Diamond, and Simon & Garfunkel setting the vibe on the radio; and cigarette-smokin’-whiskey-slammin’ Wild West movie stars fancied as the Tony Starks and Starlords of their time roaming the same streets and bars that we normies do. It was a different time to say the least (not a cell phone in sight).
In February of ’69, we meet our heroes a little past their prime. Rick and Cliff are still the definition of cool (I need a pair of Cliff Booth’s moccasins), but one gets the sense that times are a changin'. This is punctuated when persuasive casting agent, Marvin Schwarzs (embodied riotously by Al Pacino), confesses to Rick that he loves indulging in Rick Dalton film and TV binge-sessions in his home movie theater (“I love that stuff, you know the killing.” “‘Lotta killin’.”). He then however asserts that because in recent years Rick has been typecast into doing one-off pilot appearances playing villains written only be routinely toppled by the “new big swinging dicks” of Western television, his on-screen prowess will inevitably lose the ability to convey the psychological effect necessary to pull off leading-man roles— that is unless Rick agrees to fly to Rome and star in Schwarzs-produced Spaghetti Westerns. Rick takes this as an indication of hitting rock bottom, but Cliff encourages him to see the bright side. Despite Cliff being more Ricks chauffeur and handy man these days than a regular stuntman, he’s all aboard to help Rick achieve his desired renaissance of acting recognition. As individuals they’re at best high-functioning broken men, but the purity of Rick and Cliff’s co-dependent relationship through trying times anchors the soul of the film. Their friendship goes beyond the bond of average co-workers and drinking buddies; these two are an essential network of support for each other; in fact, they’re made for each other. Aside from maybe Django and Dr. Schultz, who certainly cared deeply for one another by the end of their road, we’ve never seen a real ride-or-die friendship like this in a Tarantino movie before.
A healthy portion of the movie takes place on the sets of TV western productions like the new show Lancer, where Rick Dalton aims to prove to himself and whoever’s watching that he’s still got it. You can tell Tarantino delights in showing us the behind the scenes magic—collaboration and conflict alike— that ultimately makes possible the goods we the audience come for. During a sweet interaction with an eight-year-old method actress (Julia Butters), Rick’s professionalism is clearly outclassed, but unexpected poignancy rings sharply through the child actress’ empathy and astute advice which Rick desperately needs. She is the way of the future; Rick’s time is all but finished. DiCaprio acting as an actor acting is something to behold, and as one of the longer sequences progresses, it’s easy to forget you're watching a show within a movie. Costumed as a black-hatted “evil sexy Hamlet” for a part, Rick mostly holds it together but he nearly succumbs to the embarrassment caused by a single slip up, leading to a bonkers mirror pep talk scene for the ages, one thats as uproariously funny as it is harrowingly sad.
Dappled through the main storyline, a pregnant Sharon Tate is shown going about her days as the hot new it-girl in town. The camera idolizes her every footstep, painting her as fun and quirky, like when she’s admired from a distance by then superstar Steve McQueen at the Playboy Mansion or when she’s casually popping into a screening of one of her own movies. There’s a musicality to her movement and an angelic quality to her speech that makes her an increasingly infectious presence each instance she appears. Admittedly, she’s used more as an idea than a fully fleshed out character, but as Robbie detailed in the recent roundtable discussion with Entertainment Weekly, she felt the script handled Tate like the “heartbeat throughout the story.” As a newly married young woman whose career was just beginning to take off, 1969 was an incredibly exciting time for Tate, whom Robbie wanted to portray as “hopeful and excited [...] and just kind of loving life in Hollywood.” Her easy-breezy composure makes Rick Dalton look like even more of a stammering mess.
Like in Inglorious Basterds, Pitt’s character’s scars make him look like he’s been through some shit. Outside some telling flashbacks, we can only imagine what else Cliff has seen— or what he’s done— before the events of this film take place. It’s the little details that allude to backstories that make so many of Tarantino’s characters compelling to hang out with— you feel like you get the idea of them real quick but there's more beneath the surface. Lots of scenes entail nothing but Cliff speeding through Tinseltown in Rick’s Cadillac, wind blowing through his hair and radio tunes cranked to the max. It’s as masculine as it is genuinely captivating. A powerful sense that anything can happen pulses through Cliff’s misadventures, especially when he’s making eyes at a minxy young drifter who goes by the name Pussycat (Margaret Qualley). By no mistake, they have chemistry like Clarke Gable and Claudette Colbert but turned up many notches.
Tarantino sets up the first curveball when Cliff finally picks up the siren-esq hitchhiker and delivers her to the defunct Spahn Movie Ranch, former stomping grounds of TV Westerns like the Rick Dalton led Bounty Law. The once prosperous Hollywood set now hosts Pussycat and her shoeless squatter friends, who what-do-ya-know, are the Manson Family— heard of em? Cliff is too much of a badass to be as scared as it feels he should be.
What ultimately happens with the Mansons in the movie is perhaps best experienced unspoiled, but it’s probably no secret to say that violence totally goes down in this movie, and when it does, it’s unforgettable: It’s a Tarantino film after all. Violence for the sake of violence; however, is fundamentally not in the mix. Tarantino trusts we’ll get that there’s a major difference between basking in movie violence and glorifying violence in real life. The creative choices made feel justified, earned, and oh so right.
When folks say this is Tarantino’s most Tarantino movie yet, they may be referring to the intertextuality of it all in how it calls back to and exists within the same universe as his prior films while toying with history as we know it. The film is peppered with a-ha moments and self-aware references and easter eggs to the point of awe. Tarantino's gargantuan obsession with blending fact and fiction is insane yet inspired, and it's wielded so expertly in this story that the result is cinematic gold. With so many avenues of accessibility, it’s impossible not to react to the layers of craft he puts on display.
It’s amazing how rich and expansive the Tarantinoverse has now become, and I’m not just talking about Red Apple tobacco. In OUATIH he’s cast actors who are real-life TV cowboys in the roles of TV cowboys for various shows within the movie (Timothy Olyphant of Deadwood; Cliftin Collins Jr. of Westworld; Martin Kove— Gunsmoke; etc, etc). Thinkpieces will surely be written about the inception level madness of the casting alone which only gets crazier the more you dig. But it’s even more interesting how Tarantino deliberately sets up interactions between his fictional leads and the very real assortment of characters featured or otherwise alluded to in the film. When fictional stuntman Cliff Booth coaxes one of the greatest martial artists of all time into sparring, it demands attention in a special way.
It’s also particularly enjoyable to see how Tarantino again flexes his affection for “the second best director of Spaghetti Westerns,” the great revisionist Sergio Corbucci— though perhaps that title should now belong to the T-man himself. Tarantino has always had an eye for what precise elements make “classic” stuff remain endearing or which aspects are best to be cast aside, ridiculed, or subverted— but he proves time and time again that both camps are seldom mutually exclusive. Here he’s able to memorialize and romanticize an elusive era of filmmaking in American history he clearly adores, paying tribute to those that deserve honorable remembrance while still laying bare the many flaws of the kind of people who lived and breathed in the limelight then and firmly denouncing the evil that intruded a place of wonder so many years ago.
Once Upon a Time in… Hollywood, at its core, is a cozy hangout movie packed with a surprising amount of emotional payoff. Little victories and splashes of anxiety balance out to a heartfelt bittersweetness through and through. Like other Tarantinos, this film is in no rush to get anywhere. The script is, of course, enamored with itself and content to linger so we can relish every last frame our characters participate in— but who’s counting? Each minute spent with Sharon Tate is a blessing to a new generation of movie theater patrons who get to see her shine thanks to Robbie’s indisputable talents. It also helps that DiCaprio punches in a career best performance demonstrating range that as far as I’m concerned deserves an oscar. Pitt has only been better in Basterds, but screw it, give him an oscar too. Together they make this Tarantino’s funniest picture in his entire filmography.
Like a lot of movie nerds my age, I’ve been binging and quoting Tarantino movies ever since I was old enough to understand the lethal implications of getting caught giving your mobster boss’ wife a foot massage. I couldn’t wait to see this movie opening day. When the credits rolled after my first watch, I was shocked by what I’d just witnessed; I didn’t see the ending coming at all. I had thought I knew all of Tarantino’s tricks— I was wrong. In fact, I had such a strong reaction to the final sequence alone that I knew it would take a second viewing to make up my mind.
With expectations melted away, my experience of rewatching Hollywood was akin to a cinematic joyride. Having now seen the film a few times and had the pleasure of cruising through rural Connecticut with the 31-track soundtrack blaring all the way through while I pretend I’m a handsome older man named is Cliff Booth no less, my mind is made. So when the next generation of film history books are written and Quentin Tarantino’s 10-film legacy is cemented, let it be known that upon witnessing his penultimate effort in July 2019, this writer thought it was pure gold. Best damn time at the movie theater that money can buy and quite possibly Tarantino’s greatest work yet.