by The mentioning of certain names will excite not only fans left right and center. They’re far bigger than the ordinary star or celebrity, and their status is rarely challenged. This is sometimes due to the quality of their work, combined with a deliberate scarcity of releases. But it might as well be the reputation of a certain piece of art, maybe two, that shine so bright their light also illuminates works mediocre at best for years to come. A name that will set the world on fire is Quentin Tarantino. With every new film, he came closer to the magical, self-imposed limit of 10 pictures to be shot and then call it quits. It is hence understandable fans are looking forward to any type of work by the master, no matter how alien it could be to a film like “Pulp Fiction” still not only shining brightly but glowing. An original novel would sound like taking chances in a world of calculated risks. The novelization of an already immensely popular film, though, that sounds just right for a first shot in the dark.
To anyone being introduced to Quentin Tarantino and his world of references, adaptations both direct (Jackie Brown) and indirect (anything else, basically), the 2019 film “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” already may seem like an alienating experience. After “Death Proof” (2007), Tarantino turned to “historical” material and, to this day, never turned back. This already appears to be a strange choice. On the one hand, choosing a historical setting gives any artist the benefit of not having to deal with the uncertainties of contemporary life. History is escapism more than anything, a vacation from the present for better or for worse. Second, it bestows upon the capable an almost God-like power. Audiences live in the world of now, which means their knowledge of the past is generally limited. More often than not, it is limited to a point where the skillful artist could tweak things here and there to make a point. But Tarantino himself took this concept to the extreme already in “Inglourious Basterds (2009):” Only the most naïve of viewers will believe at the end of screening that any of the events shown actually happened. This isn’t any different from the Western genre as a whole, though. Anyone taking the time studying the history of the American West between 1830 and 1920 will inevitably discover that few of the beloved classics are plausible in any way. But where Westerns tweak details to make a point and tell a story the way it never happened to entertain, Tarantino has developed a method of taking things too far.
The film “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019)” already had an inherent flaw, and it wasn’t inventing an actor called Rick Dalton starring in a fictional TV show named “Bounty Law.” The film uses the murder of Sharon Tate and activities of the Mansion Family as pivot point to construct a story without caring about any of the details. Artistic freedom is granted to anyone, but fantasizing about the private lives and thoughts and relationships of actual people that lived not that long ago, or are still living their lives, has a smack of the macabre to it. There’s this obsession Tarantino has with Hollywood and the people that made up and are making up this bubble. Not everyone is enchanted by hypothetical discussions on who slept with whom and how often, or who would’ve starred in this or that movie if McQueen hadn’t gotten the part. In the movie, Tarantino is beating all those fantasies to death in a cut that feels at least one hour too long. The novelization would’ve had a chance at redeeming the story if Tarantino hadn’t decided to change so much about it.
Changing a novel when adapting for screen is not a crime at all. You simply respect the rules of the format by doing that. The same principles may apply to a novelization: it doesn’t have to be the film on a word by word basis. The downfall of the novelization of “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood,” apart from its bad title, is that the author seems not to know any principles of novels, writing, off-screen pacing or constructing a story for anyone other than himself. The prose is underwhelming and repetitive, which shouldn’t surprise anyone who’s ever read a screenplay by Mr. Tarantino. Screenplays are a different horse to ride. Period. The dialogue is different as well. And this comes as surprise: the dialogue in the novel doesn’t work. This may very well be because there are no time constraints in a novel as opposed to a screenplay made into a movie. And Tarantino really goes to town, rambling on in bland, uninspiring and vulgar prose that lacks all of the charm of a pulp or detective novel. Something is certainly happening in the process when a screenplay is adapted to screen. That something does wonders in hiding all of the shortcomings of a writer, apparently.
It is uninspiring to learn almost nothing about Cliff’s exploits in the war, only his killings, and in the end you wish you’d never have known what a brute and disgusting freak he really is.
If anything, this novelization is a missed opportunity at developing the decent characters from the film in a way that wouldn’t tarnish them. Rick Dalton is boring, unintelligent and insecure – we knew that already. Cliff Booth is a violent killer with no true ambition or taste – we suspected that but didn’t know for sure, and the vagueness added flavor, with brad Pitt making the character a lot more interesting than he actually was. It is uninspiring to learn almost nothing about Cliff’s exploits in the war, only his killings, and in the end you wish you’d never have known what a brute and disgusting freak he really is. Polanski and Tate are beyond boring, apparently having nothing better to do with their lives than going to parties they don’t want to go to and listening to records or drinking coffee in the garden. The details on the Manson Family members add some value, but none of which give them real depth or motif.
It makes little sense how the novelization deviates from the already too long movie cut. The pacing is odd. too. Some scenes are drawn out to such fantastic length it is almost impossible to keep attention to the end. Especially since they tend to be so dull: Debra Jo out of the Manson Family sneaks into the house of a sleeping elderly couple, strips naked and changes out a light bulb for a red one. We’re left to make whatever we like from that. Had Tarantino opted to skim the screenplay and elaborate on something meaningful in the novel in a compact fashion, it could’ve amounted to something. But the truth is, you feel like Tarantino is in the center of every page throughout the entire novel. He’s the expert on Hollywood’s golden age, knowing every detail better even than those that were actually there. When Rick Dalton calls Austrian Jewish director Otto Preminger a “Nazi asshole,” you wonder if this proves Dalton’s ignorance or Tarantino’s. It falls in line with the complete loss of balance starting with “Inglourious Basterds:” You’re either a Nazi asshole or a saint, doing God’s work. Oh, and forget about the violence, that’s justified.
This story is Tarantino’s romanticized fantasy, thoroughly detached from the real world, present or past. He’s the God of this creation, changing everything at will.
This story is Tarantino’s romanticized fantasy, thoroughly detached from the real world, present or past. He’s the God of this creation, changing everything at will. This is blatantly clear in the changed climax of the episode, the Tate murder. In the film, it is turned into a perversely violent display of revenge at the expense of humanity. In the novel, it is absent altogether, as if it didn’t even make any difference to this psychosis. And it doesn’t, really, because God ordered a change of events in line with the way He wants the world to be. It is therefore only consistent that the novel ends with Rick Dalton on the phone at midnight, rehearsing scenes with his 8-year-old co-star, because ending like this is self-absorbed, uninspiring and a bit creepy overall.
Claiming that the movie “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” didn’t draw huge crowds and found admirers in all circles wouldn’t be right. The same goes for the novelization. It is anyone’s personal responsibility to decide what’s good and what’s bad. However, it cannot be denied how lifeless the writing is, how the pacing makes you scratch your head consistently while reading, and how the entire experience feels like a self-absorbed spectacle that states “I can do whatever I want and you’ll like it” more than anything else. There’s also this sneaking suspicion that Tarantino still has ideas to develop but lacks the diligence to develop them adequately from start to finish. The novel ends without the showdown. Not, it feels, to surprise the reader. But rather because the writer himself was tired of rambling on and spreading the prophecy.
