Two Very Differing Opinions on One Movie

A Ridiculously Entertaining Buddy Film (***½)
(080919) Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is an irresponsible, insensitive, sporadically brilliant, and ridiculously entertaining buddy film by the cineophile auteur, Quentin Tarantino. It is a celebration of everything irreverent, unbelievable, and absurd in Hollywood. You might not like it if you think too much or too little during the film.

People who expect the film to be a faithful representation of history are bound to be horrified. As usual despite the use of some real life characters and situations, Tarantino is mostly interested in the history of film or how history affected film. There are other directors more suited for doing historical films anyway like guys who get nominated for Oscars every year for making duller than dishwater biopics. This is more like a Marvel What if comic than a History Channel Bio show.

The film concerns two minor film figures who are experiencing downturns in their careers. Rick is a mediocre C level actor who gets supporting roles in formulaic TV Westerns (the kind of parts Shatner got before Star Trek). His character is probably not based on one person, but he has some similarities to the handsome but sometimes dull Burt Reynolds who also did some spaghetti westerns (does anyone else remember Navajo Joe?). Reynolds also had a very dependable stunt man friend that he was very close to.

As the Hollywood climate changes, Rick gets fewer and fewer parts (he might have to go to Europe to do a spaghetti western) and consequently his stuntman whose career is linked to Rick’s also gets fewer opportunities. Then something interesting happens. Towards the end the movie becomes more and more fantastic and diverges more from history as it goes along. The last part of the film seems to exist in a sort of dream reality like Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. Rick and Cliff who are initially has-been drunks begin to act more and more heroically, and they become the kind of people that would inhabit a cheesy 50s TV show.

Tarantino finds a way for the give the old 50s Hollywood establishment (represented by Rick and Cliff) to gain a little dignity as they face off against the new counter culture people that replaced them (embodied in the Manson family). The standoff is almost as glorious, over the top and exciting as anything in a Sergio Leonie or a Sergio Corbucci film.

The film stars Leonard DiCaprio and Brad Pitt as one of the best same sex couples since Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or Midnight Cowboy (I actually like this film more than the first of the two.) Like most buddy films the real themes sometimes barely below the surface are one man’s love for another, repressed male desire in a society (even if they don’t consummate it), and barely hidden homoeroticism. When Brad Pitt is lovingly shot sauntering up on a rooftop to fix a TV antenna, it is a pivotal scene, and I could hear both men and women in the audience squeal. It depends on your orientation, but Pitt may be the seen as big sex object in the film.

I usually think DiCaprio is a bit overrated, and that he rides on the coat tails of brilliant directors like Scorsese and Tarantino (I was not that crazy about The Revenant) but he was much more likeable than usual here. His boyish charm is still evident, but this film shows much more of his vulnerable side, and Pitt is also impressive as the best friend, confidant and driver money and Hollywood connections can buy.

Margot Robie is hypnotically watchable and fascinating in the role of Sharon Tate, a minor actress who became a tragic victim of the Manson Gang in the real world (SPOILER ALERT: in this quasi alternate universe the gang is stopped before they get to her.)

Actresses like Meryl Streep and Glenn Close may get much more credit and attention, but Robie’s presence has elevated every single character and film she has tackled. She was one of the only good parts of the hyper violent and ultra-dumb Suicide Squad, and she even made me like and feel sorry for Tonya Harding for almost two hours in I Tonya. No mean feat.

Although she has a comparatively small role, Robie is featured prominently in one of the best scenes in the film. She walks in on a schlocky film she was in (The Matt Helm flick, The Wrecking Crew) and takes tremendous pride in watching the film with the audience. Even though the film and role she played are no doubt forgettable she is positively delirious with pride. The charming little scene captures effectively what it must have been like to bath in the sheer joy of being a young rising young starlet in Hollywood in the late 60s with the world at your feet.

She also might be a surrogate for Tarantino taking pride in his work, I can almost see him doing the same thing in a theatre (If you look closely there is even a little reflection of Tarantino’s face in the glass in one of the scenes in the theatre reminding us of his presence.)

Many have criticized the portrayal of Robie’s role in the film saying that it transformed Tate into a mere sex object. It is important to remember that at the time in Hollywood that Tarantino is paying homage to, women were mostly used as eye candy especially in the type of B westerns and action films that this movie draws from.

Also, Sharon Tate’s sister saw the film and was completely convinced by the performance. In Vanity Fair she said “The tone in her voice was completely Sharon, and it just touched me so much that big tears [started falling]. The front of my shirt was wet. I actually got to see my sister again… nearly 50 years later.

I had more problems with the Bruce Lee fight scene which frankly repulsed me. The stuntman played by Pitt is shown easily defeating Lee and throwing him on the car. The scene did not help the narrative progress and it was unamusing. The first big global Asian action star deserved better than that. This was kind of surprising because Tarantino has been almost worshipful of Asian film culture, and he gave Gordon Liu (of the classic Kung Fu flick, 36th Chamber of Shaolin) one of his best roles in Kill Bill Volume 1.

Moreover, as actors like Rick were fading in popularity, minority stars like Bruce Lee and Pam Grier started to compete successfully with the old guard (initially as mostly stereotypical characters). My theory is the defeat of Lee could be seen as part of the old guard‘s final fantasy of fending off the new generation of film stars before they get put out to pasture. Maybe Tarantino even feels that way because his kind of films might be growing less relevant to the newer generations who care more about special effects than dialogue.

Tarantino may not be at the absolute peak of his powers (he has not created a film at the level of Pulp Fiction or the Kill Bill's for years.) But watching a Tartantino film is not just an ordinary film experience. It is more like communing with the old dead gods of cinema like Sam Fuller, John Ford and Robert Aldrich while occasionally sharing obscure jokes with a friend that no one else on the planet gets.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is not the most innovative, intelligent or groundbreaking film of the year, but it sure gave me much more pleasure than any other recent big summer blockbuster. Also anyone pondering their own aging or career obsolescence may find much to identify with in the film.
 

Tarantino at His Revisionist Worst (**)
(080219) Leave it to Quentin Tarantino to make a film about the murder of Sharon Tate — a truly horrific real crime in which female cultists murdered a famous pregnant woman — that revolves around men.

Acclaimed director Tarantino’s ninth feature film, “Once Upon A Time… In Hollywood,” is allegedly about the murder of Tate (Margot Robbie) and four others, including hairstylist Jay Sebring, screenwriter Wojciech Frykowski, and heiress Abigail Folger. But the movie opens six months before this incident, at the beginning of February 1969. The audience may be forgiven for forgetting about Tate’s existence entirely as Tarantino’s self-indulgent, three-hour exploration of a past Los Angeles era meanders through Hollywood. Indeed, for most of the film Tate and some Manson family girls (primarily Margaret Qualley and Dakota Fanning) are sidelined, seemingly so the "real" stars — Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt — can do their thing.

Tarantino frames his analysis of the clash between old and new Hollywood around the 1969 Tate murders because the memory of this particular crime still holds a place of outsized cultural importance. It was the moment the “live and let live” attitude towards the counterculture ended, when many of those in the film industry who saw themselves as more open and liberal discovered at heart that they were just as conservative and protectionist towards their own as any suit in Washington D.C. But “Once Upon A Time” takes this opportunity and mostly squanders it, reframing the murders as a story about white male heroism that does a disservice both to Tate and to the story Tarantino was ostensibly trying to explore.

For long stretches, Tarantino focuses exclusively on aging cowboy movie star Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) and his stunt double/bodyman Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt). The camera spends lingering moments focusing on their faces, their graying stubble, the scars on their bodies. We see the men working, we see them navigating relationships with up-and-coming stars like James Stacy (Timothy Olyphant) and Bruce Lee (Mike Moh). We spend a rather absurd amount of time watching Booth drive maniacally through the streets of Los Angeles as he travels back and forth between the set and Dalton’s home.

When Sharon Tate is finally allowed to speak, a full hour into the film, we quickly lose sight of her again as the camera gets caught up in the whirl of bodies and a cacophony of cameo appearances in a restaging of famous Hollywood parties of the era.

But Tarantino isn’t interested in who Sharon Tate was, anyway. All he cares about is what she represents: a sex symbol, a woman cut down in her prime, all hair and eyes and period costumes. Not that Robbie doesn’t make a meal of it; she’s far too good an actress to be completely overlooked. But the portrait of Tate that emerges is despite the director and script, not because of it. If it were up to Tarantino, it seems, Tate’s lasting impression on the audience would be her dirty sockless feet. (The Manson family members are also all dirty feet front and center of the camera, visually rendering both of equal value.)

Tarantino isn’t interested in Tate because he’s not interested in the “new Hollywood” she represents, either. This film is made by a man who’s favorite thing to do is name-check Charles Bronson, and his love for men like Bronson is clear throughout the film. It speaks volumes that Pitt’s Booth is the character with the most screen time, despite being nominally second banana to DiCaprio’s famous Dalton. Dalton is the fake, overly-emotional, nervous wreck of an actor who audiences are supposed to look down on; Booth is the real cowboy. It’s Booth who gets to take a trip out to the Manson ranch and Booth who senses the danger while his boss is at work. It’s Booth who has the sex appeal and swagger, and yet he also flashes his moral center when he chooses not to sleep with a young and nubile girl because she’s underage. All this despite hints that Booth previously murdered his wife and got away with it.

Tarantino is obviously nostalgic for the past, when everyone in Hollywood partied together and cowboys were real. But while there may not be many cowboys in Beverly Hills anymore, in a lot of ways, Hollywood hasn’t changed much. DiCaprio’s Dalton sneers at the lucrative new “spaghetti western” genre, echoing the actor’s own pretentious sneering at branded franchises in articles that proclaim him “the last movie star.” Pitt’s coiled snake of a character is dogged by claims that women in the industry won’t work with him because he killed his wife, an uncomfortable plotline when you recall that his divorce from Angelina Jolie began with allegations of child abuse (no charges were ever brought.)

Tarantino’s casting choices also betray the confidence — and convenient memory loss — of a privileged white man. Tossed in among the insane parade of A-list names sits Maya Hawke, daughter of Tarantino’s muse from his first decade of work, Uma Thurman. Hawke is only a year or so younger than her mother was when Tarantino cast Thurman in “Pulp Fiction.” In the end, Hollywood hasn’t changed much at all, if the daughter of the woman who accused Tarantino of nearly killing her on set is fighting for the chance to work with him.

Which brings me to the film’s finale, which Sony marketing has worked hard to keep under wraps. I’m not sure how anyone who has seen either Tarantino’s “Inglourious Basterds” or “Django Unchained” (both of which are loudly referenced in this film) couldn’t put two and two together. But at least those revenge fantasies allowed the victims of injustice to have the last word. Here, Tate and her crowd are denied any sort of agency or awareness. Instead, they party on while the old white cowboys of the era do the dirty work, old Hollywood saving the new. Apparently in Tarantino’s dreams, they still do.