Hollywood. The dream factory, the melting pot of myths, a place where reality and fiction dance a perpetual waltz, often stained with blood. With Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood (2019), Quentin Tarantino does not just make a film; he offers us a love letter, a nostalgic and at the same time fiercely revisionist elegy to an era, an industry and, ultimately, to himself. A work that, without pretending to be a history lesson, rightfully belongs in our prestigious Movie Canon for its ability to deconstruct and reconstruct an imaginary world, to mix pulp with poetry, history with story in a way that only cinema, in its demiurgic power, can do.

The story, in its apparent linearity, conceals a complex architecture: the film follows the adventures of a declining Western television actor, Rick Dalton, and his loyal stunt double and factotum, Cliff Booth, as they try to navigate a Hollywood in the midst of transformation, that of 1969. But it is not just the story of two friends teetering on the brink of oblivion. It is a gigantic fresco, a time machine that transports us to an era of seismic change, where the innocence of the 1960s is about to be swallowed up by the darkness lurking behind the promises of free love and revolution. And in this fresco, like a luminous ghost, moves Sharon Tate, the rising star whose real-life tragedy marked the end of an era.

Tarantino, always a maniacal archivist of popular culture, displays all his love for the cinema, television, and music of the era. The film is a labyrinth of references, a meta-textual game that will delight any nerdy cinephile. From explicit references to real Western films and television programs, to vintage posters covering the walls, to soundtracks that evoke a unique atmosphere: every detail is treated with almost religious devotion. It's like entering a feverish dream, a collective hallucination where the boundaries between what happened and what Tarantino imagines could have happened become increasingly blurred.

The beating heart of the film is the dynamic between Rick Dalton, played by a Leonardo DiCaprio in a state of grace, and Cliff Booth, to whom Brad Pitt gives a performance of measured and magnetic masculinity. Rick is the epitome of the Hollywood actor who cannot accept his own decline. His once-glorious career on the small screen with the western “Bounty Law” now relegates him to “guest villain” roles in other series, or to projects in Italy (the spaghetti western, alas, was not exactly the road to glory at the time). His struggle is universal: the fear of no longer being relevant, of losing one's professional identity in an industry that devours its children as quickly as it creates them. DiCaprio manages to embody this fragility with a moving humanity, showing the neuroses, insecurities, and moments of pure despair of a man who sees his world crumbling.

The monologue scene in the trailer park, where Rick opens up to Cliff, is a sublime piece of acting, a moment of pure empathy. Cliff, on the other hand, is his stoic and disenchanted alter ego.

A former stuntman, he lives in the shadow of an unresolved suspicion (the murder of his wife) that has condemned him to a life of marginalization, but which has not affected his loyalty to Rick. Pitt plays Cliff as a modern samurai, a man who lives by his own code of honor in a world that seems to have forgotten it. His relationship with Rick is much more than just friendship; it is a symbiosis, a mutual dependence that makes them two sides of the same coin, two lost souls who find comfort in each other. Cliff is Rick's rock, his confidant, his protector, his anchor in a sea of uncertainty. His fight sequence with Bruce Lee is a demonstration of his lethal effectiveness, but also a moment that has generated considerable discussion about the representation of pop icons.

And then there is Sharon Tate, played by an ethereal and luminous Margot Robbie. Tarantino portrays her as an angel, a figure of pure joy and innocence, unaware of the fate that awaits her. Her scenes are often silent, almost meditative, made up of small gestures: buying a book for her husband, the joy of seeing her film screened in the cinema and hearing the audience laugh. Tarantino does not make her an active character in the drama, but rather a symbol, the personification of an era that was about to end brutally. Her presence is a constant reminder of what is at stake, of the looming shadow that threatens to engulf the light. It is a delicate operation, almost one of sanctification, which has generated debate about the passivity of the character, but which, in the context of the film's historical revision, finds its full justification.

The film is a ride through a Hollywood that is both familiar and alien. Tarantino takes us to restaurants, theaters, parties, luxurious villas, and the darkest neighborhoods, giving us a vivid and pulsating fresco of an era. The soundtrack, as always in his films, is a co-star, a masterful selection of pop and rock songs that are not just background music, but emotional commentary, narrative engine, authentic time machine. Each song is a piece that contributes to building an atmosphere, an emotion.

Tarantino's genius lies in his ability to manipulate history, to create an alternative reality that is both a tribute and a revenge. The Cielo Drive massacre, the real event that terrorized Hollywood and marked the end of the hippie dream, becomes in Tarantino's hands an opportunity to rewrite the past, to give the story a different, cathartic, vengeful ending. It is an act of fiction, of course, but also an act of love and protection towards his icons, an attempt to redeem a lost innocence. This historical revisionism, already seen in Inglourious Basterds, reaches a more intimate and personal dimension here. It is not a question of changing the history of the world, but of saving a small piece of Hollywood paradise.

From a meta-textual point of view, the film is an exploration of the creative process itself, of the power of storytelling to rewrite reality. Rick Dalton is the actor who lives in fiction, who tries to make sense of his life through the characters he plays. Cliff is his shadow, the man who moves behind the scenes, the silent builder of illusion. And Sharon Tate is the embodiment of that Hollywood dream that Tarantino desperately tries to save. The film is a reflection on the film industry, on its ability to create and destroy myths, on its insatiable hunger for new stars.

“Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood” is not a film for everyone. Its initial slowness, its immersion in atmosphere rather than a linear plot, may disorient some viewers. But for those willing to let themselves be carried away, for those who have a visceral love for cinema and popular culture, it is an unforgettable journey. It is a work that, despite its stylized violence and irreverence, exudes a deep affection for its characters and the era it represents. With this film, Tarantino not only consolidates his position among the great auteurs of our time, but also gives us a piece of cinema that, despite all its harshness and provocation, is destined to remain etched in the collective memory, an instant classic that, thanks to its audacity and intelligence, shines with pure cinematic passion.