Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood (2019)

I was pretty excited when I first heard that director and screenwriter Quentin Tarantino's next movie was going to be about the Charles Manson murders, and even more when I heard it was aligning itself as a "once upon a time" movie, which I believe started with Sergio Leone's "in the West" and "in America" and has since continued with settings in China, Mexico, Anatolia, London, Venice, and elsewhere (... leave it to Tarantino to go too far by throwing in an unnecessary ellipsis). But something shifted for me with the casting announcements and other promotion, and by the time the movie came out last summer I was all the way on the other side of the fence, expecting the worst and avoiding it. And, self-fulfilling prophecy or otherwise, that's what I found when I finally got here. What crystallized was that everything since Death Proof has been weak and getting weaker, as Tarantino has spent the last decade systematically and self-consciously trying to make his sadism and the whole elaborate Grand Guignol aesthetic / shtick more palatable by putting them in the service of things universally recognized as right and good. So he has been punching at Nazis, slavery, and mean people in the West, worthy targets all. The object of irritation supposedly producing one more Tarantino pearl this time is hippies from the '60s, which is all fun and games until the moment arrives when the hippie chick with the dirty bare feet is having her head bashed into every solid surface and object available, and the blood is flying. As Lou Reed put it (in a far more sensitive context), you just know that bitch will never fuck again. That scene alone, in the ludicrous finish, goes on for quite some time.

I thought the conceit of these once-upon movies is that the fairy tale title is juxtaposed ironically against the grim settings and actions, but Tarantino's entry is not only set in glamorous Hollywood but also has a fairy tale ending. The only thing missing is a quick bio title card so we can find out how Sharon Tate's life and career went after August 1969 (what did she name the baby? did she finally divorce Roman Polanski and marry Jay Sebring? inquiring minds want to know). Everything about this movie is flabby. Not one of the maximally male wall of stars is particularly good (Leonardo DiCaprio, Brad Pitt, Timothy Olyphant, Al Pacino, Bruce Dern, et fucking cetera, and don't forget Kurt Russell, who inexplicably turns into the voiceover narrator in the second half), nor is the phalanx of gorgeous but obviously second-tier as intended females much better (Margot Robbie, Margaret Qualley, Dakota Fanning, Lena Dunham [!], Dreama Walker). Wasted, all. The soundtrack registers only occasionally, and even Tarantino's trademark zingy dialogue is closer to flatulent. Wait, I take that back about the players. Mike Moh as Bruce Lee was very entertaining. And there's no denying Tarantino's skills as a filmmaker—a few scenes work pretty well. I went into this one with the lowest possible expectations, hoping that paradoxically it would surprise me. That's how it worked with Death Proof, which I avoided at first because of the reviews and then found one of his best when I finally got to it. But Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood is not one of Tarantino's best. It is merely better than The Hateful 8, which can be said about thousands of movies.