Tarantino’s love letter to the lost era and fan-fictionalized version of Hollywood wistfully embraces the relaxed rhythm of daily life and revels in the littler moments that culminate in a benevolently cordial pat on the shoulder. It was yesterday that I got lost in the fairyland of Tinseltown. Wrapped in the dark cocoon as soon as the lights went out, I felt as if I were there in the backseat of Rick Dalton’s car, as the godly handsome Cliff Booth gave me a ride around Los Angeles with the radio on, humming to the slow tune of California Dreamin’. I had lost track of time and space, reality felt so far away from my grasp, as the luminous lights swallowed me into the dazzling mythical Golden Age I knew so very little about yet somehow felt so familiar with. History’s, like a mix of fine wine, being re-concocted by the man who is constantly drunk on cinema and he makes 100% sure that you’re drunk with him – getting lightheaded and tipsy by the effervescent power of cinema, Margot’s warm radiance, cathartic blood splattering carnage and the bros (Leo and Brad) mournful affection for the past. Quentin’s letter does not always add up and the long road that we traveled on is, sometimes self-indulging, uneven and bumpy but the end result became so endearingly gonzo that I watched it all go up in flames and relished it with a beating heart.