For someone who’s generally considered an “auteur,” it’s rare to leave a Quentin Tarantino movie wondering whether you “got” it. His detractors tend to imply that he’s juvenile, derivative, a hack, even an idiot. To me, he seems more like an idiot savant, and that’s part of the appeal. I love that he’s so transparent, that he’s so patently shooting the movie that he wants to see, that he seems to know exactly what he wants — to see Nazis getting scalped, to hear hitmen argue about Madonna, to shoot a female-led martial arts epic (and yes, perhaps to hear people overuse the N-word like a child who’s just learned a naughty word).
With other filmmakers I love — your Paul Thomas Andersons, your Barry Jenkinses, your Charlie Kaufmans — there’s a sense of exploration, where they have some ideas but aren’t sure where those ideas will take them. Tarantino, almost in an uncanny X-Men kind of way, always seemed to know exactly what he wanted to see. Look at his leaked script for Inglourious Basterds. It’s almost unbelievable that someone who spells so badly could write such a brilliant movie. You get the sense that not only does Quentin Tarantino “speak movie,” he may only speak movie. His blind spots are part of the mystique.
Once Upon A Time… In Hollywood is the first time I’ve left a Tarantino movie wondering if I “got” it. I certainly enjoyed it, but for a director whose interests I once thought I knew by heart — Sonny Chiba, Elvis, Madonna, characters named “Toothpick Vic” — Once Upon A Time left me groping for meaning. I’ve never felt like I needed a theory to explain a Tarantino movie before. Maybe that’s the point?
Leonardo DiCaprio plays Rick Dalton, a temperamental actor who cut his teeth playing cowboys in Westerns and starring as a bounty hunter in an NBC show. Rick drinks too much, and beats himself up for drinking too much, especially now that he seems to be on the downside of his career. Brad Pitt plays Cliff Booth, once Dalton’s stunt double but now mostly his assistant — his driver, gopher, handyman, house sitter, drinking buddy, and shrink. Pitt’s Booth, his still obnoxiously lean body crisscrossed with stunt scars (I actually got angry during a scene in which Pitt whipped his shirt off to reveal his perfectly flat, allegedly 55-year-old washboard stomach) is the perfect complement to a head case like Rick Dalton. Unlike Dalton, Booth is almost pathologically free of introspection. While Dalton frets about his career from his mansion, Booth is like a pig in slop doing odd jobs, eating mac and cheese, and living in a trailer with his pitbull, Brandy (you can see “her” penis in one scene, so maybe Brandy has her own stunt double).
Cliff and Rick live on Cielo Drive next to Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate. We do check in with Tate every so often, but mostly the movie simply consists of Rick and Cliff navigating 1969 Hollywood. There are a lot of movies where I’m just content to be immersed in the time and the place, but I don’t know that there’s ever been another Tarantino movie where I’m mostly just content to be immersed in the time and the place. In fact, save for the occasional flashbacks (inexplicably narrated by Kurt Russell’s otherwise minor character) and clips from Rick Dalton’s shows, Once Upon A Time is even free of Tarantino’s usual fractured timeline tricks.