Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood (dir. Quentin Tarantino, 2019)
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Confident and brash in every scene, Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood is a picture that could have only been made by Quentin Tarantino, steeped in a heady, jukebox-charged milieu. In past interviews Tarantino has noted that he makes films he would like to watch himself, the making of films otherwise a way in which to satisfy his preference for certain sights. Something of this self-delight in his own work does translate into the glorious spectacle of LA 1969 that is so artfully reconstructed on the screen. It is a world that has perhaps been lived less than it has been dreamt, but Tarantino nevertheless displays a close attention to a certain moodscape of Hollywood cinema, a transition from the old style into that of the new. (In thematic likeness, Orson Welles’ The Other Side of the Wind works as a unique point of reference.) However, beneath the surface of this dazzling collection of moments, it is little more than another pulp story, cardboard thin and unenthralling. Uneven scenes intersect with indulged, over-drawn moments of dialogue, before climaxing 140 minutes in with an unbearable moment of violence that is without doubt the worst element overall. Little more than one of many exploitation movies conceived in the wake of Sharon Tate’s murder by the cult Manson “family”, Tarantino guises truth with a revisionist fairy-tale that leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.
Leonardo Di Caprio plays Rick Dalton, a buffoonish cowboy figure who lands role after role as the “bad guy” of pilot television episodes, ‘Bounty Law’ being his most successful, as well as cheap studio westerns. Glued to each of his creative endeavours is his former stunt-man double, Cliff Booth, now a valet and handyman around his luxury pad in the hills. Over a couple of days in February, the duo discover that Dalton is neighboured by the newly-famous film director Roman Polanski and his wife, Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie), a familiarity that becomes all too worrying when the narrative skips ahead 6 months to the time of her supposed murder. Hollywood is a playground of expectations that all but breaks the ailing spirit of Dalton, propped up by the compliments of Marvin Schwarz (Al Pacino) and the wake-up calls of Booth: “You’re Rick-fucking-Dalton. Don’t you forget it!” Tarantino’s most successful moments are when the two characters interact, not dissimilar to the brotherhood of Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. Tarantino conjures a pulp fantasy with Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood, a seeming randomness, or carelessness, to narrative development that is met by comparably aimless events. An incredibly personal topic, it is also one that allows the personality of its maker (Tarantino) to swamp its cinematic landscape – once again, everyone speaks like a Tarantino avatar – carrying us alongside his ego more than anything.
Tarantino admitted in a recent Picturehouse interview to having worked on the script on and off for several years, moving it between script and novel form, before eventually deciding on cinema as the required medium. As a consequence of such revision, the product of Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood feels incredibly unformed, almost as if we were following a process of thought more than a sense of narrative. Actions have no follow through, scenes appear incoherent against one another, and its list of characters (Sharon Tate being the remotest of all) are given almost no development. Reservoir Dogs was successful because it found urgency in the scenes that took place either side of a failed heist, inviting myth to the core of its narrative, and likewise The Hateful Eight used poisoned coffee to provoke new reactions amongst a blizzard-refuged ensemble. In this instance, with the exception of the nearby Manson cult, nothing provokes change and nothing appears to ask for it. Aesthetics reign over plot development for Tarantino, the geeky, nostalgia-fuelled era a wonderful stage to reimagine … but just a little hollow when given any true grounding. Thom Andersen’s 2003 video-essay Los Angeles Plays Itself anticipates LA’s devolvement into a set of tired, iconic images – landmarks typically used in filming, such as the giant “HOLLYWOOD” sign, governing its presentation and sentimentality. Tarantino is one of many directors who plays into the ideals of this aesthetic.
Watching Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood, the problem of onscreen violence (typically male, typically glorified) again resurfaces – only, unlike the period works of Django and The Hateful Eight, Tarantino might be said to have a more appropriate stake. Violence is again celebrated, not met with consequence – and does he care? No, not really … and maybe we shouldn’t either. Such violence, however, was the source of most laughter in the screening I attended. Incidentally, I found myself tuned into the audiences’ laughs more than my own – desensitised to the ultraviolence of his career, laughter for many seems to be the only resort to any display of aggression or brutality. Maybe the least funny Tarantino picture so far, I strained to find anything to laugh at across its entire running time.
Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood is another very watchable picture from an illustrious and extraordinarily original director, but creative mannerisms now slouch into somewhat overfamiliar, stultified moments.
