Perhaps it took Quentin Tarantino this long to fully (and usefully) process the fact that he was named after Quint Asper, Burt Reynolds’ character on Gunsmoke (which aired on CBS from 1955-75), to come up with his own TV show inspired by this reality: Bounty Law. Or rather, his own version of such a show within the filmic context of Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. Which wields as its main character in both Western star Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio), once at the top of his game/height of his fame in the 50s when cowboys were king in American pop culture, now somewhere in limbo as the one-off bad guy guest star on throwaway TV series of the less and less popular genre that catapulted him to stardom.
But that stardom would likely not have been so assured without the help of his trusty stuntman/best friend, Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), to carry him through some of his most action-packed scenes. Cliff’s penchant for taking a hit in stride also stems from being a war veteran–with the flashes of violence in his seemingly PTSD-driven behavior to prove it. To that end, the Hollywood rumor mill long ago churned out word that Cliff killed his wife and got away with it (a scene of which doesn’t quite clear up whether the rumors are true). Whether this is Tarantino’s attempt at saying people like to tarnish a good man’s name for no reason/sport in the name of Hollywood pedestal-knocking or that men so often get away with things at the mere cost of their reputation is at the viewer’s discretion (though this viewer tends to believe he finally flipped his lid over being ball-busted by his verbally abusive wife and harpooned her). Regardless, it establishes Cliff’s natural predilection toward violence, in addition to being the owner of a pit bull. Brandy, docile as a doorknob until she hears one instructive sound from Cliff. Who doesn’t make much of any sound at all as he’s a man of few words and all action. Even in the way he encourages Rick to persist in the face of reconciling that he’s no longer as “useful” as he once was.
Rick, who, in contrast to Cliff, is a verbose mess after a meeting with his low-tier agent, Marvin Schwarz (Al Pacino). A no-nonsense sort informing him that if he doesn’t want audiences to be indoctrinated with the idea that he’s the one-off bad guy they’re constantly rooting against in random TV series, then he ought to take up Italian spaghetti Western director Sergio Corbucci on his offer for the lead in an Italian movie. Or “Eye”-talian movie, as Rick pronounces it in his Missouri drawl. But not only does Rick despise this bottom of the barrel genre, he would also rather atrophy doing bit parts in L.A. than tango with any aspect of the known ghettoness of Italian filmmaking. Narrated by Kurt Russell (who also appears as Randy, a stunt coordinator) at times, there is a point when Tarantino’s overt take on the “Tower of Babel dubbing” in post-production of Italian movies shines through in this voiceover, making it clear that the methods are more than Rick can bear. Eventually, however, he must.
Though he has a few more parts to play beforehand. Including on The Green Hornet a.k.a. the now notorious segment of the movie in which Bruce Lee (Mike Moh) faces off with Cliff after the latter openly titters at the cartoonish arrogance of the former, who boasts that he could knock Muhammed Ali on his arse if he wanted to. Cliff, unafraid to put Lee’s all talk and no action claims to the test takes the bait when Lee engages him in a fight. The sixth degrees of separation of Lee to the Manson murders aren’t six so much as two: Jay Sebring (played by Emile Hirsch) and Sharon Tate (played by Margot Robbie). It was Sebring who got Lee into acting in the first place by introducing him to producer Bill Dozier, who would get him onto The Green Hornet. Tate, too, was connected to Lee in that he taught the cast of The Wrecking Crew martial arts techniques as part of the preparation for the roles. This then ties into Roman Polanski (Rafał Zawierucha) suspecting Lee of being the one responsible for the murders when they first happened as he was the only person he knew of in their inner circle who could harm those who outnumbered him (that and the telltale clue of a pair of glasses at the crime scene that Polanski briefly thought could be another link to Lee). Once more, the fantastical interconnectedness of everyone as only it can be in Hollywood comes into play. Yet in August of ’69, that interconnectedness wasn’t fantastical so much as outright creepy–no matter how Tarantino revised it or not.
The la-di-da bubble of Hollywood frivolity is at its most apparent when Polanski and Tate attend a party at the Playboy mansion, with just some of the attendees standing out front being Steve McQueen and Michelle Phillips (which, yes, meant that Mama Cass was at the party too and which, yes, Polanski had an affair with while married to Tate). Its good vibes tinged with omens of jealousy (by McQueen)–therefore carnality–iterate the notion that the summer of ’69 was the end of an era for the Hollywood of yore in many ways. No longer could it be positioned as a glamorous construct once the Manson Family got a hold of it. In many respects, it mirrors the reckoning that occurred post-#MeToo. The lid blown off of any shred of remaining tinsel clearly affecting Tarantino, so close to the many victims and one big abuser at the (lack of) heart of it all. Yet what seems to be at the core of Once Upon A Time In Hollywood is a vehemently protective defense of the town and what it represents, which has, with each passing decade, increasingly become a scapegoat for people to blame for their own fucked up behavior. Case in point being when Susan “Sadie” Atkins (Mikey Madison), suggests, “Let’s kill the people that taught us how to kill.” In an oddly loving nod to the mother of all modern television, I Love Lucy, Atkins further seethes, “Every show in the 50s was about murder except I Love Lucy.” Yet before the collective hippie (and beyond) backlash against the industry, there was an undeniable reverence for it. For the sheer freedom of unbridled escapism provided. But where had that reverence gone in ’69? Down the toilette along with Rick’s career.
But at least he’s still eking by. Doing his best to imbue even small parts with memorability and “Shakespearean”-ness. Especially after striking up a conversation with a child actor on the set of (real life show) Lancer, Trudi Fraser (Julia Butters)–a hard as nails cunt of an eight-year-old with a secret soft spot for weak men in the same vein as Arya Hopkins (Iris Apatow) in the Netflix series Love. When she pontificates about the job of the actor (she refuses to use the word actress to classify herself) being to do everything in her power to be the best she can be for a role, Rick suddenly takes stock of how cavalier he’s been of late in the execution of his own performances. Including a rant to himself in his trailer about the needlessness of having consumed eight whiskey sours the night before, therefore being the only one to blame for his cock-up of the lines while on set (it’s a spot-on delivery of the average alcoholic in revelatory communion with himself).
Cliff, in the meantime, keeps coming into contact with a drifter of a hippie called Pussycat (Margaret Qualley), a composite of Manson Family members Kathryn “Kitty” Lutesinger and Ruth Ann Moorehouse, finally taking it as a sign to give her a requested ride to Spahn Ranch where, again, as only Hollywood can be this incestuous, Bounty Law, was shot until the beginning of the 60s. Immediately sketched out by the suspiciousness of this commune of squatters, he demands of them if George Spahn (Bruce Dern, who ended up with the role after the intended Burt Reynolds passed away before he could take it) is aware of their existence on his ranch. When he goes up to the main house to find out for himself, a coldly enraged Squeaky Fromme (Dakota Fanning) grudgingly lets him see for himself that George is all too aware. Before leaving, another prime instance of Cliff’s violent predilections take place and he’s off again–away from the truly dark side of Hollywood before heading back to the squeaky clean version of it in the Benedict Canyon neighborhood where Rick lives…right next door to the newly moved in Polanski and Tate on Cielo Drive–in a stroke of true Hollywood real estate foresight. Oh and how Rick does hope that close proximity to one of the most sought after directors in the world (for this was right after Rosemary’s Baby) can potentially give him a helping hand into a genre of acting he was never quite able to break into.
Tate, on the other hand, is just getting started in her ascent through the ranks of the ladder that will lead to the classification of household name. So intrigued is she with her own rise that she decides to take in a matinee of The Wrecking Crew to see for herself how the audience reacts to her Marilyn Monroe-inspired sexpot but humorous ditz persona. Tarantino’s incorporation of this element of Tate’s own self-fascination is perhaps another case in point critics of the “wrong” identity politics as opposed to the film itself might use in their arsenal of reasons why Tarantino clearly hates women–always presenting them as vacuous and sparsely intellectual as evidenced by their lack of lines to deliver in comparison to the boys. For this reason, Once Upon A Time In Hollywood could just as easily be dubbed The Last Big Dick Picture, for it is only Tarantino who could still scrape by on swinging his with so much force in this “highly offensive” narrative. One that, more than anything, ingeniously mocks the hypocritical moral outrage not only of the Manson family members, but of society at large. Pissing on the entertainment it demands of the industry, yet claiming to want no part of it.
