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.

if quentin tarantino’s name wasn’t above once upon a time in hollywood, this film would not be adored as it is. 

we’d be talking about how it takes a tragic murdered female’s story and retells it through the lens of... two men as the heroes. we’d be talking about how it makes the hero a wife murderer and invokes the name of another murdered woman (natalie wood) of the era whose story this unnecessary deviation inspired. we’d be talking about how we are supposed to love said murderer, empathise with him, root for him. we’d be talking about the casting of a sexual abuser when such a strong case was made against working with harvey weinstein again for that very reason. perhaps we’d be talking about the manson girls as victims (which has only really dawned on me after discussions with a friend) who received brutal deaths while the leader of the cult received... absolutely nothing, and hardly mentioned in name.


and we’d be talking about how dull it all is too. 161  long, laborious minutes mostly taken up by about several pairs of (dirty) feet, endless, endless shots of driving cars and highways and scenes - almost all of them - that overstay their welcome. 

and because it IS tarantino, we should be shouting it even louder.

i don’t understand the love for this. i know i’ve never been a tarantino fan, but with some of his other features, i can understand the appreciation of them. this one? nah mate.

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