Quentin Tarantino has, for a while now, been
reminding us what’s so great about movies — or
at least, what he thinks is so great about them.
He’s made an old-fashioned double-feature
(“Death Proof,” of “Grindhouse”), resurrected the
wide-screen format of 70mm Ultra Panavision
(“The Hateful Eight”) and generally presided as the
pre-eminent B-movie evangelist for a generation.
The power and thrill of exploitation movies, he has
earnestly espoused, can conquer all evils — or at
least slavery (“Django Unchained”) and the Nazis
(“Inglourious Basterds”).
But “Once Upon a Time ... in Hollywood,” set in
1969 Los Angeles, is Tarantino’s most affectionate
and poignant ode yet to the movie business. It’s
a breezy, woozy Hollywood fable that luxuriates
in the simple pleasures of the movies and the
colorful swirl of the Dream Factory’s backlot.
Some pleasures are nostalgic, and some — like
driving down Sunset Boulevard or martinis at
Musso & Frank — are everlasting.