What does “Once upon a time in Hollywood” has to teach us? Nothing that life cannot teach us itself. The cynical nature of our existence. The void in which we experience the cosmos. The hope that we rely upon every night when we say good night: That we will wake up the next morning…
Too much?
Perhaps.
But this is life.
Full of surprises. Freud used to behave like that in the last years of his life. He treated every moment as his last, he even bid farewell to his friends every time they parted as if this was the last time he saw them. So much we are dazzled by life, that we tend to never think of death. And yet, death is here. Next to us. Ready to touch us.
Let me tell you a story, as Steve Mcqueen said in the film…
Once upon a time in Town X there was a man. That man was married. He had a baby boy. That man was happily married. He had a thriving business, a loving wife and a new child. One day that man held the baby in his arms and went down the stairs. He fell. The baby died. Depression set in. His wife divorced him. His business closed. Now that man is ruined. A shadow of his old self. And he is living a life of death ever since…
Too much?
Perhaps.
But this is life.
A true story.
One of many.
The same life was the life Sharon Tate used to have. Full and happy. She was married, she was successfull. She was waiting a child. Nothing could be better. She couldn’t wait to hold that baby in ther arms. And she would. But inside her grave…
For one night, she and four of her friends were murdered in the most gruesome way. And everyone was shocked. And everyone watched in awe. And Cielo Drive was indeed the way towards Heaven for her and those innocent lives that night took…
Too much?
Perhaps.
But this is life.
Do you dare look at it in the eyes? Do you dare accept death?
Sharon Tate once upon a time read the Tess of Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. She even bought the book to her husband who later on made a film out of it. (There is a small scene in the Tarantino film that portrays that little detail) Funny that this excellent book talks about life’s tendency to have its own plans while you have your own…
Exactly as it happened to Tate.
Exactly as it happened to that man.
Too much?
Perhaps.
But this is life.
On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor. The pair of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him somewhat to the left of a straight line. He occasionally gave a smart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of anything in particular. An empty egg-basket was slung upon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch being quite worn away at its brim where his thumb came in taking it off. Presently he was met by an elderly parson astride on a gray mare, who, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune.
“Good night t’ee,” said the man with the basket.
“Good night, Sir John,” said the parson…
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