Quentin Tarantino. What can
really be said about the man that hasn’t been said a million times before? The
idiosyncratic, self-referential film geek auteur has more than earned his place
in the pantheon of American filmmakers with seminal works like Reservoir
Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, Inglorious Basterds, and Django Unchained,
which pay tribute to the films that shaped Quentin’s taste while also adding
his own incendiary brand. It hasn’t all been sunshine and rainbows, though.
Over the years, his films have faced a myriad of accusations of racism,
misogyny, and glorifying violence. And while those takes are, to put it politely,
misguided (read: wrong), it has gotten people asking if the current cinematic
landscape is one where Tarantino can still thrive in. And with Once Upon A
Time in Hollywood, his ninth out of ten movies planned before his
retirement, it seems like he’s been asking that same question himself.
Set in 1969 Hollywood, our
story follows Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio), a faded TV star who’s sunken
into alcoholism after the cancelation of his hit TV show. Reduced to a ball of
neurosis, Rick’s only friend his stunt double, driver and errand boy Cliff
Booth (Brad Pitt). With his career in uncertainty, all Rick can do is pick up
various cameo roles, lounge around in his bachelor pad, and envy his neighbors
Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) from afar. While Rick pulls
himself together enough to pivot to film by taking up a villain role in a Spaghetti
Western, Cliff has a run in with a suspicious group of hippies.
There are words I’d use to
describe this movie that I never thought I’d ever used to describe a Tarantino
movie: contemplative, wistful, measured, deliberate, and dare I say it,
restrained. There’s still a plethora of his signature tropes and fixations (dark
humor, lengthy pop culture centric conversations, a vintage soundtrack, obscure
references to forgotten artifacts of Quentin’s youth, gratuitous shots of women’s
feet etc.) but they don’t pop out as much, mostly because of its time and
setting. People casually inject vintage pop culture references into normal
conversation not because it’s a Quentin Tarantino movie and everyone just talks
like that, but because it’s Hollywood circa 1969 and it’s part of the oxygen
they breathe. Cameos from Steve McQueen, Bruce Lee and Roman Polanski and excursions
to the Playboy Mansion and Spahn Ranch don’t show up to draw attention to themselves,
but because they were big mainstays at the time. For someone like Tarantino,
this setting is a veritable playground where his most outstanding features
seamlessly blend into the background.
Once Upon A Time in Hollywood is the
kind of movie that only could’ve been made by a seasoned veteran in the
twilight of his career in the same way Ran was the perfect capstone for
Kurosawa, or how F for Fake only could’ve been made by a dying Orson
Welles. Even without the knowledge that Tarantino plans on retiring from
directing after his next film, there’s still a foreboding sense of finality
hovering over the production. So, what does an aging industry veteran in a period
of rapid change and great societal upheaval that may or may not have use for
him anymore do? Why, make a movie about an aging industry veteran in another period
of rapid change and great societal upheaval that may or may not have use for
him anymore, of course.
The real strength of the movie
(and the closest thing to a plot if we’re being honest) is the friendship
between Rick and Cliff. Based loosely on the real-life friendship between Burt
Reynolds and his stuntman Hal Needham, Rick is the kind of guy who shouldn’t be
sympathetic; a drunken ball of neurosis scared shitless that he’s on the last
second of his 15 minutes. Cliff, meanwhile, is the epitome of the classic Hollywood
tough guy: calm, cool, doesn’t have much to say, and when he does, he lets his fists
do the talking. But he’s the kind of best friend everyone wishes they had, and
he’s just happy to be around and getting work, especially since his own career
went on the downswing after rumors spread that he murdered his wife. Within the
story’s orbit is the blissfully unaware Sharon Tate, the rising star whose
brutal death at the hands of the Manson Family brought the peace-and-love
innocence of the 60’s to an abrupt and violent halt. Most movies that tackle
this subject tend to treat her as a victim or martyr and nothing else, but this
is the first time I can recall her being treated with any kind of humanity.
Much fuss has been made about her lack of lines and physical presence in the
film, but as they say, there are no small parts, only small actors, and Margot
Robbie does wonders with what little screen-time she’s given. One of the films
most poignant scenes is when she goes to see one of her own movies incognito
and relishes in people’s reactions to her performance and see herself onscreen
with a sense of pride and accomplishment.
The most shocking thing about
this movie, though? This is far and away the least violent movie Tarantino has
ever made. Quentin Tarantino, Hollywood’s favorite grindhouse gorehound, making
a movie with the Manson Family as a key plot element, and for 95% of it, it
doesn’t get more violent than your average late 60’s primetime show. It wasn’t
until about an hour and a half in that I realized he was biding his time and
saving all that gore for the grand finale, especially since the third act coincides
with a six-month time skip and a major paradigm shift between Rick and Cliff. At
first you think it was all a buildup to an inevitable tragic end, but then you remember
this is the guy who shot
Hitler in a burning theater and blew up a plantation,
and realize this isn’t that kind of movie. While Tarantino is no stranger to
revenge fantasies, all his attempts were for groups of people he wasn’t apart
of (women, Jews, African Americans), so it was only a matter of time before he brought
the lead out for something that hits a little closer to home.
Bottom line, Once Upon A
Time in Hollywood is simultaneously the most and least Quentin Tarantino
movie he’s ever made, with all the flourishes and naked geekiness that permeates
his quarter-century body of work, while being more deliberate in how exactly he
dishes it out. If I had to rank this in his filmography, it would be somewhere
in the middle, but it really speaks to his mastery when one of his mid-tier
films is still an 8 out of 10. Whether it’s his best is up to you. What can’t
be disputed, however, is that this is his most personal and most human film to
date.
8/10
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