There Was A Time in Hollywood by Quentin Tarantino | Review


Published on Aug 05, 2019


In the cinema of Quentin Tarantino, the point is always to tell stories and take pleasure in it, there are always characters that tell something to someone and while they are enjoying, enjoying a hamburger with cool drink to swallow the bite, filling a mug of beer, licking the foam from moustaches, lighting a cigarette, Red Apple to enjoy the aroma in the throat, or waiting for the whipped cream to accompany the cake just ordered.

From reservoir dogs to Django Unchained, from Pulp Fiction to Jackie Brown to Kill Bill to Death Proof to inglorious basterds: Tarantino loves to tell the stories of the characters to resolve a situation or get out of the predicament they are forced to their time to tell other stories to other characters, often lying about their identity to impersonate any of the parties (“Enter in the characters,” says Jules to Vincent, “Fingiamoci negrieri interested in the fight between mandingo” suggests Shultz in Django, “To do this job, you must be a great actor” is explained to Mr. Orange, and so on), to underline the fact that the life and the cinema in the fund are the same thing, two realities coexisting and interchangeable.

There Was A Time in Hollywood is the exaltation definitive of the concept, Tarantino in this gigantic project is a mission bar manifest, and in this sense, if not as his masterpiece (Pulp Fiction is unreachable), the work is to be regarded as the magnum opus of the most iconoclastic and influential film of the last thirty years: inside there are all his films plus dozens of others, real or fictitious, all categorically declined in the world raw and without the brakes of the series b, that so much has given to the young and which is equally (if not more) has returned as an adult, all of which serve as a propellant to tell the stories; indeed, even more, to tell the stories of the people who the stories the tells, or does the cinema.

And then, doing the rounds, tell the history of cinema itself, eventually the heart.

There is a strong imprint of Bastards Without Glory (for those who write the best film of the author after Pulp Fiction) but it feels very strong the influence of the experiment attempted (although not totally successful, with the last one, The Hateful Eight, which must be recognized at this point, the merit of having marked the transition to a new phase of the cinema tarantiniano: exactly the same as the yellow of the setting western of 2015, also this film is split into two distinct parts, this time tied together by an omniscient narrator, and just as the earlier work, here we are in the field of film dialogue, in which we abandon ourselves to the narrative of the superfluous and the action is left out of the all, ace in the sleeve to use it sparingly – a point total that denotes a renewal in style, run in the earlier work, and here a perfect.

In addition to the absence, finally, of the nth character from the good, the bad hanslandiana – already repeat in Django, but absolutely nerve-wracking with Tim Roth of TH8 (Tim Roth among other things cut from the movie version of once upon A Time in Hollywood) – in this film Tarantino pursues a plot of all the horizontal, or better to let the plot, the horizontal transport anywhere she wants to go: two days in the everyday life of Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio, the divine), and Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt, the most divine of the divine) in the early months of 1969 (part one) more jump in time to the fateful evening of the 9th of August of the same year (the second part), day of the death of Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie): at that moment, however, the film seems to not take that never arrive, the first part lasts an eternity and that eternity is clear that Tarantino wants to get lost in, the film constantly alternates the various planes of reality in which the film deviates with the digressions from the film-within-the-film, both created from scratch by Tarantino, is real film of that period (!).

It is a fairy tale in the literal sense of the term, There Was A Time in Hollywood, is the way in which the narrator Tarantino tells the story of the storytellers that have inspired him, the church was rebuilt, however, through his style: if Cuarón with Rome has resurrected his childhood in the City of Mexico 1970, showing the student revolts that would have inspired the scenes colossal of The Sons of Men, or the vision in the room of the Abandoned Space by John Sturges, the seed from which a day would come to be Gravity, Quentin Tarantino stops a year before and there plant the whole of his cinema, from sources of inspiration to the signatures, the personal, in a sense rifacendolo again in less than three hours.

At the end of the process comes out of a kind of summa-summary, which is incredible.

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