Once Upon A Time In Hollywood

    I went to the cinema today to see Once Upon A Time In Hollywood. It brought to mind a couple of people from my past. 

     First, it made me think of my father. He was of the opinion that movie critics were frauds. He couldn't believe that lousy films were frequently lauded by the guys writing reviews and surmised that they were being corrupted, one way or another. 

      Second, it reminded me of something my old Canadian friend Aron once said regarding the Britney Spears vehicle Crossroads. When I asked him what he thought of that rites of passage drama, his answer was succinct: 'It was a bad movie'. 

   For the heralded Once Upon A Time in Hollywood is a bad movie, at least if the purpose of a movie is to entertain the viewer. I lasted a tiresome hour before walking out. 

     There was a lot of talking about nothing in particular. Leonardo Di Caprio, who gave a hilarious turn in The Wolf of Wall Street, is wasted because the script isn't at all funny. The audience was silent until about 45  minutes in, when there were a few cheap laughs courtesy of some martial arts noises. 

     Brad Pitt plays a enigmatic man of few words. He roughs up Bruce Lee, runs errands for Di Caprio and makes eyes at girls. He's also partial to removing his shirt. There's a long scene involving him driving home to his trailer, where he takes a long time feeding his dog. An annoying soundtrack plays seemingly without respite.  

   I read a few reviews of this picture, including one in which the word 'masterpiece' had somehow found its way onto the page. My father would have been shaking his head in disbelief. 

No Surrender

   The cockpit of the plane, a relic from the 1930s, is open. I'm in the front seat, with the pilot sitting behind me. To the east and far below the waters of the Pacific crash into the Gold Coast. 

   It's meant to be a leisurely tourist ride, but after about five minutes irrational fear starts to consume me. The plane's damn old and my harness, which forms an X over my chest, looks flimsy, like it could come loose at any moment. I'm very aware that there's nothing above my head, and I envision myself being sucked out into the sky. 

   Then, incredibly, I become aware of a powerful urge to undo the safety restraint and jump out. Some competing part of my brain kicks into action and compels me to sing a song. A fist-pumping track from my childhood comes to mind: No Surrender, by Bruce Springsteen. 

   I close my eyes and start to sing. I know the words very well, and I sing it over and over. Eventually, I just focus on the final verse, repeating it ad nauseam like a madman. It goes something like this: 

Now, out on the streets tonight the lights grow dim,

The walls of my room are closing in.

There's a war outside still raging,

You say it ain't ours anymore to win. 

I want to sleep beneath peaceful skies in my lover's bed,

With a wide open country in my eyes,

And these romantic dreams in our heads. 

   I'm pulling myself together when the worst moment occurs. The pilot informs me over the plastic communication tube that he's going to perform some loop the loops. I can't believe it! I hold my hands together in a death grip, keep my eyes shut and focus on No Surrender. 

   I've no idea how long the flight lasts, but it seems like the trial of my life. I notice the panic subsiding as I concentrate on Springsteen's words and finally we land. As I descend, Keith, a friend from the Virgin Islands, tells me I look like a ghost. That night I get blind drunk. 

   I don't know why it occurred to me to sing at that crazy moment, nor why I hit upon No Surrender. It's not even my favourite Springsteen song. And yet, it may have saved my life. 

Wine tasting

   We walk down a gloomy staircase. It’s the middle of the afternoon and we’re alone, save for a short and youthful man with a designer beard standing behind a huge glass counter stuffed with cheese and charcuterie. I guess he’s French. The tables are wooden and packed close together, like a Parisian bistro.

          ‘We’re just here for drinks. Is that OK?’ I ask him.

          ‘Of course. Take a seat and I will be with you shortly.’ He is French.

          We’re here for wine tasting practice. In hushed tones I explain this to our Gallic server and order an Austrian Gruner Veltliner for my companion. He seems diverted by our little game.

           He brings the glasses over. They have thick rims and have clearly seen better days. My Italian friend shakes her head and remarks that even at home she uses Riedel glasses. And this is the centre of London!

          We set to the tasting. My wine is white and has a vague nose of apples and pears, with a bit of creaminess and not much body. It’s not up to much and I haven’t a clue what it is. My friend grimaces as she takes a sip of her Austrian white. She is likewise baffled.

          I hazard a couple of wild guesses: Chenin Blanc? Gavi? She again shakes her head, looking disappointed with me. Michael…

          It turns out it was a Chardonnay from the Maconnais. We agree it’s mediocre. I am not impressed with myself. I try her wine, expecting the lovely white pepper character that is the tell-tale sign of Gruner Veltliner. It’s not there.

          We move on to reds. Another grimace from my friend has the waiter sniffing the bottle to check it’s not spoiled. We leave feeling chastened: how are we going to pass tomorrow’s tasting exam?