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. 

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?