Once Upon A Time In Hollywood

With woefully few exceptions (Top Gun: Maverick comes to mind), today’s cinematic experiences seem to be woke nonsense with no understanding of how Western civilization or the human condition actually works. If not that, then it’s a computer-generated focus group-approved cash grab that substitutes meaningless third-act battles for substance, all to promote the next cinematic product. Sometimes, we even get both (sup She-Hulk?). Then, in comes Once Upon A Time In Hollywood. The 9th (and perhaps penultimate) entry in Quentin Tarantino’s delightfully unique body of work manages to have its own refreshing voice while avoiding the cookie-cutter boredom of virtually every other movie released in the last 14 years. That does not mean that it is perfect.

Once Upon A Time In Hollywood

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood drops us into an alternate 1969 Hollywood, much like Inglourious Basterds toyed with history. It’s a vibe-heavy love letter to a bygone era, centered on Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio), a fading TV star clawing for relevance, and his loyal stuntman, friend, and occasional chauffeur, Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt). Rick’s a booze-soaked mess, chasing the role that’ll keep him afloat, while Cliff’s the cool-headed wingman who keeps him grounded.

                   

DiCaprio and Pitt sell their bromance with zero pretense—no forced subtext, no hidden agendas, just two dudes who’ve got each other’s backs. It’s refreshing in a world where modern scripts often can’t resist overcomplicating relationships. Margot Robbie lights up the screen as Sharon Tate, the real-life actress and model married to Roman Polanski (yes, the director later convicted in ’77, who fled in ’78 and still nabbed an Oscar in 2003—because Hollywood). But Tate’s role here feels like an afterthought, and we’ll get to that.

The film’s subplot hinges on the looming threat of Tate’s murder by Charles Manson’s cult, a dark cloud that younger viewers might not even clock. If you’re over 40 or a trivia nerd like me, you know the history—Tate, pregnant and on the rise, was brutally killed in ’69. The movie leans on this knowledge, but without it, the subplot lands like a puzzle missing half its pieces. References to “Charlie” and a tense scene at Spahn Movie Ranch don’t hit unless you’re already in the know. I’m all for trusting the audience’s intelligence, but this needed more connective tissue to make you care.

Tarantino’s signature style—blood-soaked chaos, rapid-fire dialogue, and laser-focused narratives—takes a backseat here. Unlike the anime-level gore of Kill Bill or the verbal onslaught of Pulp Fiction, Hollywood goes for a laid-back, sun-soaked California groove. Long, lingering shots swap Basterds’ tension-building for a breezy ‘60s vibe. It’s a bold shift, but the film’s biggest flaw is its lack of focus. The story meanders, and the Manson subplot feels like it was spliced in from a different flick.

DiCaprio is the beating heart of the movie. His Rick Dalton is a masterclass in full-body acting—watch him shuffle down a Western set’s main street, radiating insecurity so vividly you can almost taste it. It’s the kind of performance that should be studied. Pitt, meanwhile, is Pitt—charming, effortless, and so comfortable in his own skin you’d swear he was born that good-looking. Cliff’s a man’s man, owning his mistakes and rolling with life’s punches, always ready to do what’s right.

Robbie, bless her, is criminally underused. She’s radiant and fully committed as Tate, but the script gives her nothing to chew on. The Manson thread feels tacked on, like an idea Tarantino didn’t know how to weave in. It’s a small enough part that it doesn’t ruin the film, but it’s a missed opportunity.

The first two acts are the strongest, tracking Rick and Cliff as they navigate a fading Hollywood. Rick’s wrestling with an offer to star in spaghetti westerns—beneath his pride, but necessary to pay the bills. He eventually bites the bullet and heads to Italy for four films. This could’ve been the movie’s spine, a natural arc to follow. Instead, we get a jarring, out-of-nowhere narration summing up his Italian stint. It’s clunky, disrupts the film’s rhythm, and sets up a third act that feels like Tarantino pivoted to a different script altogether.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is a mixed bag. When it’s good—DiCaprio’s vulnerability, Pitt’s swagger, the retro aesthetic—it’s electric. But the disjointed Manson subplot and lack of narrative glue keep it from matching Tarantino’s tighter classics. It’s a fun ride, just not one that sticks the landing.

WOKE REPORT

Nada

• There’s really not a lot to complain about here. Rick is self-absorbed and afraid but handles his $**t in private, except for one breakdown with his friend and another, in what is arguably the film’s weakest moment, in front of an obnoxiously precocious little girl. However, the film’s narrative doesn’t suggest that all men are like this, or even that it’s a good thing, and he doesn’t get rescued by some ball-busting heroine who can do no wrong, all while substituting strength and character with dismissive snark.
• Cliff is an imperfect man who lives in a trailer and eats boxed mac n’cheese but he’s a stalwart friend who accepts his life stoically. When it’s time to kick ass, he kicks ass. When it’s time to use his brain instead of his wang, he just tells his wang “no,” and that’s it.