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Leave it to Quentin Tarantino to make a film about the murder of Sharon Tate — a
truly horrific real crime in which female cultists murdered a famous pregnant
woman — that revolves around men.
Acclaimed director Tarantino’s ninth feature film, “Once Upon A Time… In
Hollywood,” is allegedly about the murder of Tate (Margot Robbie) and four
others, including hairstylist Jay Sebring, screenwriter Wojciech Frykowski, and
heiress Abigail Folger. But the movie opens six months before this incident, at
the beginning of February 1969. The audience may be forgiven for forgetting
about Tate’s existence entirely as Tarantino’s self-indulgent, three-hour
exploration of a past Los Angeles era meanders through Hollywood. Indeed, for
most of the film Tate and some Manson family girls (primarily Margaret Qualley
and Dakota Fanning) are sidelined, seemingly so the "real" stars — Leonardo
DiCaprio and Brad Pitt — can do their thing.
Tarantino frames his analysis of the clash between old and new Hollywood around
the 1969 Tate murders because the memory of this particular crime still holds a
place of outsized cultural importance. It was the moment the “live and let live”
attitude towards the counterculture ended, when many of those in the film
industry who saw themselves as more open and liberal discovered at heart that
they were just as conservative and protectionist towards their own as any suit
in Washington D.C. But “Once Upon A Time” takes this opportunity and mostly
squanders it, reframing the murders as a story about white male heroism that
does a disservice both to Tate and to the story Tarantino was ostensibly trying
to explore.
For long stretches, Tarantino focuses exclusively on aging cowboy movie star
Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) and his stunt double/bodyman Cliff Booth (Brad
Pitt). The camera spends lingering moments focusing on their faces, their
graying stubble, the scars on their bodies. We see the men working, we see them
navigating relationships with up-and-coming stars like James Stacy (Timothy
Olyphant) and Bruce Lee (Mike Moh). We spend a rather absurd amount of time
watching Booth drive maniacally through the streets of Los Angeles as he travels
back and forth between the set and Dalton’s home.
When Sharon Tate is finally allowed to speak, a full hour into the film, we
quickly lose sight of her again as the camera gets caught up in the whirl of
bodies and a cacophony of cameo appearances in a restaging of famous Hollywood
parties of the era.
But Tarantino isn’t interested in who Sharon Tate was, anyway. All he cares
about is what she represents: a sex symbol, a woman cut down in her prime, all
hair and eyes and period costumes. Not that Robbie doesn’t make a meal of it;
she’s far too good an actress to be completely overlooked. But the portrait of
Tate that emerges is despite the director and script, not because of it. If it
were up to Tarantino, it seems, Tate’s lasting impression on the audience would
be her dirty sockless feet. (The Manson family members are also all dirty feet
front and center of the camera, visually rendering both of equal value.)
Tarantino isn’t interested in Tate because he’s not interested in the “new
Hollywood” she represents, either. This film is made by a man who’s favorite
thing to do is name-check Charles Bronson, and his love for men like Bronson is
clear throughout the film. It speaks volumes that Pitt’s Booth is the character
with the most screen time, despite being nominally second banana to DiCaprio’s
famous Dalton. Dalton is the fake, overly-emotional, nervous wreck of an actor
who audiences are supposed to look down on; Booth is the real cowboy. It’s Booth
who gets to take a trip out to the Manson ranch and Booth who senses the danger
while his boss is at work. It’s Booth who has the sex appeal and swagger, and
yet he also flashes his moral center when he chooses not to sleep with a young
and nubile girl because she’s underage. All this despite hints that Booth
previously murdered his wife and got away with it.
Tarantino is obviously nostalgic for the past, when everyone in Hollywood
partied together and cowboys were real. But while there may not be many cowboys
in Beverly Hills anymore, in a lot of ways, Hollywood hasn’t changed much.
DiCaprio’s Dalton sneers at the lucrative new “spaghetti western” genre, echoing
the actor’s own pretentious sneering at branded franchises in articles that
proclaim him “the last movie star.” Pitt’s coiled snake of a character is dogged
by claims that women in the industry won’t work with him because he killed his
wife, an uncomfortable plotline when you recall that his divorce from Angelina
Jolie began with allegations of child abuse (no charges were ever brought.)
Tarantino’s casting choices also betray the confidence — and convenient memory
loss — of a privileged white man. Tossed in among the insane parade of A-list
names sits Maya Hawke, daughter of Tarantino’s muse from his first decade of
work, Uma Thurman. Hawke is only a year or so younger than her mother was when
Tarantino cast Thurman in “Pulp Fiction.” In the end, Hollywood hasn’t changed
much at all, if the daughter of the woman who accused Tarantino of nearly
killing her on set is fighting for the chance to work with him.
Which brings me to the film’s finale, which Sony marketing has worked hard to
keep under wraps. I’m not sure how anyone who has seen either Tarantino’s “Inglourious
Basterds” or “Django
Unchained” (both of which are loudly referenced in this film)
couldn’t put two and two together. But at least those revenge fantasies allowed
the victims of injustice to have the last word. Here, Tate and her crowd are
denied any sort of agency or awareness. Instead, they party on while the old
white cowboys of the era do the dirty work, old Hollywood saving the new.
Apparently in Tarantino’s dreams, they still do.
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