Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood - Brief Thoughts.

Quentin Tarantino is one of our most idiosyncratic directors, a master of conversation and snappy writing, coupled by his slow-burn suspense that's been a staple of his movies, from Reservoir Dogs to The Hateful Eight. Tarantino's talent has always been high, owed perhaps in no small part to his love of classic cinema, even in its most nitty-gritty. He's an unashamed lover of film and its classic Hollywood hallmarks, drawing from the auteur-driven golden age of the late 60's and 70's. And in his ninth film, we lay witness to his very own love-letter to that age, a story told Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood.

It's the truest embodiment there could possibly be for a love letter. Taking place in 1969, Tarantino treks us through the groovy glitz and glamour of the New Hollywood scene, amidst the grand partying, the rockin' tunes of the new psychedelic scene, and filling the scenery and imagery with so much nostalgia overload, it truly feels like a pleasing ode to its inspirational time. From satirizing the deluge of TV Westerns from Gunsmoke to The Virginian, to affectionate homages to some of his favorite filmmakers, you can tell Tarantino is absolutely giddy about bringing that time and place to life. It's hard for the viewer not to get lost in the vivid, sprawling life of its setting, nor the expansive and extensive long-takes that DP Bob Richardson frames like a gallery of time capsule snapshots. It's a technically marvelous movie from head to toe... but unfortunately, that's also where the novelty of Tarantino's love-fest ends.

Unless you live under a rock, you know Tarantino is a very... long-winded filmmaker, and so his most ardent critics can call him excessive and indulgent, even if that's like criticizing the sky for being blue. But that's much harder to ignore in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Whereas most of Tarantino's films are airtight and laser-focused - even at his most extended (I can still enjoy Django in one sitting), Hollywood is far more erratic in its interlocking storylines, and central narrative waypoints. And when I mean interlocking stories, I mean completely disjointed tangents. Simply put, the movie tries to cover way too much.

The best of the three central driving factors is Leonardo DiCaprio's Rick Dalton, a washed up TV cowboy trying to break into movie star status. As he tries to turn his life around, sinking into booze to ease his mind and spirit, he essentially has to work his way from the ground up all over, soon landing himself prominent guest spots on popular shows, through incredible high and low points. This is easily the best subplot of the film, because it plays well to all of Tarantino's strengths. It's as sharply written and directed as anything Quentin's ever made, a darkly and broadly humorous satire of the TV Western scene, compelling both in the behind the scenes and on camera affairs, and puts Quentin's conversational skills in glorious spotlight. It's also a superb showcase for DiCaprio, who seems to be relishing the pathetic and manic nature of the character, admonishing himself for the simplest mistakes, and desperately clinging to relevance and validation. It's some of the most fun DiCaprio seems to ever have had, and it's sad that Quentin seems ready to retire after film ten, because DiCaprio would be such a brilliant muse for him.

Less interesting concerns the life of Rick's stuntman, Brad Pitt's Cliff Booth. Having been a go-to double and friend of Rick's for years, the two have developed an especially needy and symbiotic relationship. Their bond funnily enough has become Driving Miss Daisy, with Rick having become so eaten up by his insecurities and ego, Cliff has simply been collecting dust in the background. He's become a taboo person to have around, especially with stories floating around concerning possible murder, and on-set fiascos, including an extended duel between him and Mike Moh's Bruce Lee, in perhaps the film's funniest sequence. It's a solid role, but one that feels like it has several missed opportunities, especially as it's through Cliff's eyes that the backdrop of the Manson family is introduced, and you'd figure that Cliff's indifferences with Rick would push him towards an expected direction, but it doesn't actually stop to consider that.

But easily the weakest of the three is that following Margot Robbie's Sharon Tate, who in real life had her bright future snuffed by the Mansons. This isn't the weakest because of any glaring fault of the filmmakers, or of Robbie, who does a solid job of channeling her inspiration. It's an affectionate tribute to the budding starlet, following her in tangential, sometimes meandering fashion as she lives out the fantasies of her golden age, letting herself go during parties and music, and discovering her connection with audiences within a theater experience. Tate elsewhere often feels like a figure of tragedy, solely defined by the terrible fate that befell her, while so often the brighter parts of her life went ignored (though, it's a little too fanboyish of Roman Polanski for my taste). So for Tarantino to dwell not on those unhappy times, but find the brighter meaning of her existence, is almost revelatory in its construction, if likely to stir some conversation. No, the problem isn't with its intentions. The problem is that it's easily the most disposable third of the film.

As evidenced by its title, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood has an almost novel-like approach to its staging and pacing, but Tarantino seems to have taken "novel approach" a little too literally, as the film becomes very unbalanced as it progresses. Tarantino is usually so focused with his pacing, as the episodic pieces of Pulp Fiction and Inglourious Basterds are so vital to each other, to lose any of them would cripple the film. If anything, Hollywood would benefit from dropping some baggage off, and doesn't justify the excessive 159 minute runtime (this should be sub-two hours at most). Especially Tate and the Manson backdrop, which barely even come into play with Rick and Cliff's worlds until the last twenty minutes, and so it feels like a sudden deviation. For this to work, it needed to be more constantly interwoven, rather than breaking away from each other until the eleventh hour. When they do kick in, and that confrontation takes place, the effect and the staging is great, but it's taken too long and too little to integrate it, and so the end result becomes somewhat clumsy. Even at his longest with The Hateful Eight, Tarantino still had a sniper's eye for naturally built endgames, so why did that escape him here? Worse, that only exacerbates earlier stretches of the film, making their problems more pronounced and underwhelming, making it feel like a film continually spinning its wheels, and burying greater potential.

I love Tarantino as much as the next guy, but of the ones I've seen (I haven't watched Death Proof), this might just be the weakest film he's made. In forging a giddy love letter to his passion and his people, he seems to have lost his sense of restraint in the meantime. Usually that's a recipe for a wonderful film, as his flaws are typically those that improve his movies, but I suppose even Quentin has his limits. It's an enjoyable, but uncharacteristically unbalanced movie, where his indulgences have gotten the better of him, and while people may love to slam Django's final third, it's a lot more consistent than what his latest film offers. Let's just hope that he doesn't retire early, and his tenth and final film is a major improvement. I don't want "passable" to be the note he goes out on.


*** / *****