I just spent some time poring over a lot of the critical reviews of QT's "ninth," Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, and one of the things I walk away with is that very few, if any of the critics' interpretations and observations--what they themselves walked away from the movie with--happen to coincide or match my own.
In my effort not just to write a so-called "review" of Tarantino's latest movie, but to try and capture what I feel is most relevant about it, I am going to approach my task in a different way. I want to start with random impressions that I "walked away" with--not to justify them, but merely to admit honestly these are things I felt after the movie experience was over.
In other words, I'd like to tackle the most popular observations and criticisms of the movie instead of writing a proper review of the film itself. Number one: forget about Tarantino's so-called "obsession" with feet (nevermind "female's" feet); nevermind his obsession with "actors" (nevermind male vs. female). Bare feet ain't nuthin' but a thang. I barely even noticed the "foot fetish," and my opinion veers towards noting that it's all these viewers' obsession with the foot thing that I find to be the "fetish," here. Jesus, people, they're feet, and I don't see why anyone would even bother mentioning it. I myself wouldn't even bother mentioning this aspect of the film if it didn't serve as the perfect "symbol" for an even deeper, underlying "fetish" of this director: the fetish of violence.
As far as I'm concerned, every single negative criticism leveled at Tarantino's use of "violence" in film is completely "off-base" as to warrant the need for my writing this review. Let me start at the beginning core value that I believe Tarantino has been "defending" all along--and subsequently (because I just happen to agree with him) generated the need for me to defend him. All along, since the release of his first film Reservoir Dogs--there has been actually no violence in any Tarantino movie; zero, zilch, nada. I hate to break it to those with their heads in the sand--but it's all fake--every last bloody-looking bit of it is fake Hollywood special effects and has absolutely nothing to do with real violence, comprende, senores y senoras? That's the ticket, right there. Like literature, movies can be artistic vehicles (and like much literature, often fail to reach the mark). Our freedom of expression is limited to how much our core audience is willing or able to take. Clearly, there are no apparent limits to how far movies have been able to portray violence onscreen--look no further than the Saw franchise and the fetishistic "torture porn" movement in film they helped usher in. The one thing all the most sickening, perverted and violent scenes in all these types of movies happen to share is fantasy, period. The violence is a fantasy even when it's intent is to portray realistic, historical accounts of it (take Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan as a good example: the horrifying violence of war was not only showcased, but excused as such, because it was attempting to portray violence "as it really happened," and furthermore, in the context of war, which is almost always universally waged even as worldwide protest movements rail against its justification). And this movie is nothing if not a fantastic, spun out rumination on violence in both film and real life.
I feel that an excessive amount of interest in movies--and by extension, Tarantino's movies--coupled with a bit of "too much time on our hands" (not to mention being compromised by the inundation of the masses' opinions online) has resulted in an inordinate attention being paid to what otherwise would be ordinarily forgotten minutiae (the aforementioned lady's toes, for example). I'm not just defending Tarantino's right to use his creative license in any way he sees fit in order to make an entertaining movie, here; I am defending the inherent right of all moviemakers to utilize their creative license in any way they see fit to create engaging, thoughtful, and entertaining movies. And that's what I feel lies at the center of not only Tarantino's latest foray into the self-examination of celluloid fantasies (and our obsession with it) but I feel it's what lies at the heart of all his movies.
If movies don't offer escapism--what is it, exactly, that they do offer? Allow me to articulate my own hypothesis. Escapism is exactly what they offer (even if it comes in the guise of confronting that escapism--it's still "escapism," at the end of the day). It's real life which confronts us. Movie theaters are buildings in which people may pay to gather together for a couple of hours in which they may vicariously enjoy (or pass the time being "terrified," "confronted," and any other combination of human emotion the movie seeks to emulate for them) a skewed slice of reality--without having to deal with the true-to-life consequences of said experience and its raft of emotional baggage. We go see movies (and enjoy them) because they are fake--and what's more, we know they are fake--we even know that we know they are fake, for cryin' out loud.
Take the scene that some people have objected to, the confrontation between Cliff and Bruce Lee. Some have complained that it's borderline racist, because it dares to portray the stunt man calling Bruce a "little man," whereas others appear to be miffed that Lee's legendary "prowess" as a martial arts fighter could in any way be "bested;"--when we could observe this scene without any of that baggage attached whatsoever. First of all, as in any movie that attempts to tell a fictional story, for all we know the character portrayed by Brad Pitt may have a racist streak in him, or he may have something against Asians, or he may not; it's not made completely clear in this movie, but irregardless, the criticism leveled at this scene in that regard is baseless because it's the viewers task--their responsibility, in fact--to suspend their disbelief utterly in favor of the fictive element inherent to the character they are witnessing onscreen portrayed by an actor playing a part. As for the existence or lack thereof to the scene's realism, insofar as wondering whether any one short of Chuck Norris could "defeat" the legendary Bruce Lee in face-to-face combat, well what I thought was refreshing about the scene was how deftly the director took Bruce Lee's legacy down a notch, revealing and reminding viewers that Lee was, himself, an actor and that his movies, like all movies, are nothing but spun-out fantasies for our viewing entertainment. Tarantino has done nothing wrong in this scene, if anything he's remaining true to the characters in portraying them as the flawed individuals they were, and besides--it's just a movie, people. Despite the small percentage of disgruntled viewers who become offended by a fictional scene in a movie (regardless of the context) having now, by 2019, grown in numbers to a disproportional infantry of self-righteous "quality-inspectors" hell-bent on "cleansing" what they feel to be gratuitous "political incorrectness," that's no reason for anyone in their right minds to join them and their kneejerk crusade of misplaced intolerance.
Try tellin' that to the so-called critic or casual moviegoer complaining about some director's "foot fetish," "misogyny," or "penchant for violence," etc. etc. In the end, whatever anyone has to say about it, feet are feet, women are women, men are men, violence is violence, and movies are movies. There's no "getting around" any of these conclusions. And all of them--feet, women, men, violence, and movies--exist in and of themselves. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, just like 99.9% of its contemporary counterparts in cinema, remains a thing unto itself as well, and I found it to be entertaining and just thought-provoking enough (after the credits had rolled and we'd escaped into the bright of day once again) to make it into what I personally consider to be a good movie. That makes Tarantino's record (with me, personally) "nine for nine," that is--I've liked every single one of his movies thus far. Hmmmm...I wonder why that is? *Hint: it has everything to do with the fact I think they are good, entertaining movies--again, if you like that sort of thing--and absolute zero to do with me having any penchant for sadism, violence, misogyny, men, racism, or whatnot--it's just a movie, people. It's not my fault I correctly watch and enjoy movies while the rest of you self-appointed "Thought Police" psychoanalyze every last frame as if it's a psychological profile test to determine your imaginary enemy's guilt in a murder trial. I'm sorry, but noting that "the director may have a foot fetish" does not--by any stretch of the imagination--accurately reflect the quality of the film itself in any way, shape, or form. It appears to me that such "criticisms" amount to a thinly-veiled admitting that in fact, the viewer has not only failed at honoring their half of the moviegoing contract (leaving their baggage at the door, for example) and instead have succeeded in revealing their own personal biases.
I mean, what's not to like about this or any other Tarantino film--or any movie by any other director, for that matter--if that's your thing? (Especially when it comes to this particular director, which is part of the reason I'm "doubling down" on not only supporting his movies, but defending them.) I think I take so much glee in Quentin's films partly because, in a sense, they are "movie's movies"--films made by a lover of movies which happen to reflect its maker's particular sensibilities and, for lack of a better word, but I can roll with it, fetishes, if you will. His love of old-style, exploitative moviemaking, where car chase scenes are filmed in real cars during actual chases, for example. Where he manages to capture a scene of a character gripping on for dear life to the roof or hood of a speeding car by filming a stunt person doing just that in real life (albeit filmed at slower speeds than the final screen-reel intends to depict)--all in the service of having captured that nuance of quality in the final scene which lends it just the necessary degree of realism needed to convey that fleeting sense of "magic" which movies inherently presented us with back in the day of real-life stunt film making. It's this very "movie magic" which lies at the heart of what I'm writing about here. An overall magical effect that cannot be quantitatively assessed, because the end-results are a gestalt arrived at only through a mind-bogglingly complex array of the sum of its parts.
Not only does Once Upon a Time in Hollywood celebrate this escapist notion of what Hollywood movies are all about--were originally all about--it glouriously doesn't give a good god whit of a damn what you or I or anyone else who may not "get it" thinks--and that's to this director's credit--and has been part of his raison d'etre since the very beginning, if you ask me.
But you didn't ask me. That's why I've taken it upon myself to write this review of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. None of my reviews are "proper" reviews, because I write what I want and how I want. I don't like to include too many spoilers, so I have to talk "around" certain aspects of the movie, and secondly I prefer writing positive reviews, so lucky for me and you there's a ton of great movies being made out there. You either enjoy my excuse for movie rants or you can do what all those people who complain about foot-fetishes and violence and misogyny in movies seem to be incapable of doing, and that's to refrain from indulging in those types of movies or my questionable so-called "movie reviews," thank ya very much.
I enjoyed this latest Tarantino film a lot, and I give it an enthusiastic thumb's up. On a five-star ratings system, hell I'll give it at least four, why not? The movie has a lot to give, there's a lot to dig into, and its pulled off just about as effortlessly as any of the eight flicks that came before it in this director's oeuvre. That said, there were a few moments throughout its two-hour-and-forty-one minute running time where I felt just a tad underwhelmed by it--compared against his last two movies, which were more over-the-top (in a very good way)--but in retrospect, I feel it was because of the movie's much more light-hearted tone and execution, in addition to maybe a few meandering scenes, which, in the final analysis, end up having worked for the film rather than against it. It just took some time for me to fully process it after having just sat through it.
I think it's safe to say, that at this late stage of the controversial director's career, the amount of "fucks" he has left to give concerning his detractor's not overly salient points, is at a cold absolute zero, and rightly so. Yes it's the year 2019, yes we are immersed near-to-drowning in the turbulent waters of a gradual movement of political correctness engendered by the peculiarities of our growing online community, so of course there's more mass and weight to square off against when you're daring to step into the very shoes you helped create: the good ol' movie director's shoes. What's a fun-loving, affable middle aged man who's managed to amass eight blockbuster movies under his belt over the past 27 years to do?
Roll with it. And roll with it he does in this, his ninth sojourn into penning celluloid love letters to the cinema. The entire world is invited into the theater to "leave their baggage in the front lobby," kick their feet (bare or otherwise) up and enjoy a nearly three hour trip down memory lane to peer into the lives of just a few of Hollywood's so-called "elite," circa the summer of love, the final year of the tumultuous sixties and all which that decade came to represent.
I found it to be an engaging, brisk yet methodical, blending of not just fantasy with reality but fantasies within fantasies and their impact on the lives of a couple of die hard Hollywood workers, an aging western television actor with the more or less failed grandiose dream of becoming an A-star movie legend, and his sidekick stunt double. This dual personality works as the centerpiece for our mostly fun excursion down Hollywood's faux-tinged boulevards. I say "mostly fun" for a lot of reasons, among them which I think lies at the core of Tarantino's methodology: the momentary suspension of disbelief required to not merely enjoy any work of fictive art (be it a novel or a movie) but more to the point--that suspension-of-disbelief which allows us, as unbiased viewers, to let go and enjoy everything about these forays into make-believe, including (but not limited to) our right to poke fun at as many "sacred cows" as we are able to, without repercussion.
Of course, when it comes to the "court of public opinion," artists (both novelists and movie directors) make the very beds they must lie in, and there's no escaping that form of ultimate judgment--one that goes beyond mere "criticism" and lies more in the realm of "reaction," plain and simple. And there's no denying that the reaction to Tarantino's movies has been positive enough to sustain his career over the past 27 years.
Once Upon A Time In Hollywood was an enjoyable time spent in the movie theater. Without spoiling the ending for you, I must say that as far as I'm concerned, it arrived in a satisfactory manner, and while the credits rolled, it actually engendered a feeling that I don't recall having ever really experienced in that many movies before. It was that fresh sense of wonder at the possibilities movies are capable of delivering. For an old dog like Quentin to provide this feeling once again at this late stage of his career leaves me questioning if his self-imposed "ten movie limit" might be a tad premature, after all. I think he's still got a few great movies left in him. I sure hope he gets to helm a Star Trek movie, next. Maybe he can exclude it from his canon of "bonafide Tarantino originals," thus paving the way to wrap up his oeuvre with "Kill Bill III." And then again maybe we should merely disregard his claim of making only ten movies entirely. Or at the very least subtract two of the Kill Bill installments in order to justify at least one more movie for us. Lord knows he could settle for a dirty dozen.
