Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood

Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood ★★★★

This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.

This review may contain spoilers.

I want the zeitgeist in the costume... but not anachronistic...”
”You could even wear it out to the Strip tonight.”
... ...
🎵Baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time🎵

Quentin plays GTA: Dusk of Aquarius

Somehow the dork’s dorkiest picture. Like how it plays out all the backlot detail of Rick Dalton’s “Lancer” TV shoot, building up the scene with his preparations, then shoots the scene fully diegetically, with no evidence of the production or crew or individual shots till Rick forgets his line; Tarantino loves living in the reconstruction: a woman’s bared feet framing the projected cinematic detritus of the era and all. Whole cloth radio chatter and the passing city as driven through in sliding sunset memory act as interstitial tissue for a limber tripartite: Dalton, the villain of the week in the fake western, looking down upon his future; Cliff Booth, the returning hero of Spahn Movie Ranch, looking up to his past; Sharon Tate, presaging her doom by delivering Polanski’s future, a copy of “Tess of the D’Urbervilles”, but saved in the twilight time of the cinema, watching her present. Fetish or kink, it’s a mediation of love. Tarantino’s paean to the B-listers who formed the forgotten texture of the time, and this film preserving their age by interrupting its murder, full circle with the conceit, a preservation by splicing in fiction: the actor laments his declining career through Easy Breezy’s hip injury in a pulpy paperback, but only his double’s hip is maimed; and Tate, like Tess, wakes from the sacrificial altar to her rebound Angel, Jay Sebring, and the authorities are not there to collect her. No helter-skelter, but a hippie-melter.

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