I recently read an article in The Atlantic that suggests 2020 is not really the mark of a new cultural decade, but maybe it is for me. While it’s clear that eras rarely correspond to years ending in zero, author Amanda Mull’s point in her piece was that 2010 did not see enough changes to give the 2010s distinction from the 2000s.
She notes that the economic downturn, which showed itself in mortgage loan crises that exploded in 2008 were showing signs back in 2001. I don’t know about that. What I do know is that back in 1999 everyone was talking about Y2K and how it could destroy life as we knew it. This did not happen on NYE 2000, but something really bad did happen 21 months later.
9/11 — September 11, 2001 changed life as we knew it. Air travel would never be the same again. And the dotcom economy as I’d seen it crumbled. Seemed like more than a coincidence to me. Back in 2000 and earlier, it appeared like anyone who wanted one could get a graphic design job. Then, nobody could get any good creative job.
So, for me that’s when the 90s ended.
Also, for people like me working in media, all of our technology rapidly became obsolete. I could say a lot more about this, but it’s too boring and tragic to bother.
What I will say is that Mull also notes in her article how people at her high school were already texting each other in 2003, and that social media was a thing, too. Facebook had been preceded by Friendster and Myspace, blah blah blah. Sure, but the big thing about Facebook was the scale. And besides that, it was just a desktop application. Doing things online meant doing them on a computer, which usually meant sitting in a corner of someone’s house. Of course, laptops had been around forever and wifi was available and getting better everywhere, but to engage online meant being in front of a computer with a keyboard.
Cell phones were really more of an analog device before the release of the first iPhone in 2007. And even then, nobody really knew what to do with a data plan yet. People mostly called each other and sent small messages composed by tediously keying in T9 environments.
Then, suddenly, everyone was online. Grandmothers were sending emails and moms were addicted to looking at babies on Facebook. Plus your weird uncles had a place to share their conspiracy theories with thousands of like-minded individuals.
So, for me, the 2000s were a distinct period, an era that could be called a decade, though I’d say it started late and ended early. The Big Short housing bust coinciding closely with smartphones, the mobile web, retail dumps for online purchase and shipping, social media — which includes cyberstalking — and a shift in communication and decorum marked all pretty closely around 2010 seems like the start of something new. Several somethings. Also, 2007 was the peak year of paper usage in America, which I believe is a noteworthy change to the way we do business and communicate with one another.
2009 was the year I experienced my first full blown panic attack. I’d call that the end of innocence, maybe. And I’ve spent the last decade, these past ten years, dealing with generalized anxiety disorder in one way or another. Near the end of 2009, I also ended a toxic relationship that spanned most of the 2000s (even though it started near the beginning of 2005). The long three years leading into that were sort of a preamble of bumbling idiocy that I can only fairly call youthful indulgence, arrogance, indiscretion (that did include my first trip abroad). I was stupid and I did stupid things as I adjusted to life without chemical dependence.
But that’s only half true. I drank well from 2009-2017 because I drank heavily from 1996-2008 or whatever. Now I face this new decade, the first 20s of Millenium III with a couple of years of sobriety and a new mental health challenge: my anxiety has apparently waned in favor of depression. Hopeful depression, if that’s a thing.
I’ve also got some promising opportunities ahead and the release of new work, so maybe these things just go together. Let’s all have fun in our new 20s, no matter how old we are.
a recent episode of HBO’s Euphoria,
the character of Cassie
Howard (played beautifully by Sydney Sweeney) goes to a Halloween
party dressed almost perfectly as Alabama Worley. Actually, she goes
to two Halloween parties, but before the first one, her boyfriend
makes her change. He thinks she looks too slutty and does not seem
to get the reference.
the second party (the next
night), she hooks up with a
guy who not only gets the
reference, but charmingly compliments her choice and decision to wear
the costume. But then he
wants to go farther than she does, and when she stops him, her
berates her about how worthless she is as anything other than a sex
That’s different from what happens to Alabama Worley in True Romance, who faces off with a hitman (James Gandolfini) in the third act, and takes a horrible beating from him. 17-year-old Cassie, who must have seen True Romance by way of a streaming algorithm recommendation would not have been thinking about that after the party, though. She’d have been thinking about how jerkish the boys in her life are, and rightfully so.
True Romance was released in theaters about nine years before Cassie Howard would have been born (Sweeney is 21).
might recall, probably much later, that Alabama ends up brutally
killing the hitman with a shotgun after smashing him in the head with
a toilet tank lid. It’s a rough fight, but she wins, and later saves
her husband Clarence (Christian Slater) in
addition to absconding
with the drug money. And so
she is the ultimate hero of the story and they live happily ever
after on a beach in Mexico with their son, Elvis – named after the
ghost of Elvis Presley (Val Kilmer) who occasionally visits Clarence
when he needs advice.
Tarantino wrote the original screenplay, but he sold it, so his ending – where Clarence dies in the gunfight and Alabama gets away, but kills herself later to join him in death – was changed. Director Tony Scott said he just liked Clarence and Alabama too much not to see them happy in the end of the movie. In an early draft of the True Romance script, Clarence was writing his own screenplay, which Tarantino ultimately took out and wrote into its own script. That sold, too, and became Natural Born Killers, though Oliver Stone did some rewrites that left Tarantino displeased.
Patricia Arquette played Alabama Worley, making the character, by way of Euphoria maybe, something of a fashion icon now. But she was always an example of feminine empowerment, I would like to think. Arquette, of course, has become a vocal critic of Hollywood traditionalism, an advocate for equal pay and treatment for women in the industry.
always liked True
Romance, not least of which
because I had an early sexual experience while it played on VHS in
the background. It’s a
pretty immature story, so
maybe that makes sense. And the
idea of a teenager going to a party dressed as Alabama Worley these
days is not much different from me going to a party in 1998 dressed
as Billy (Dennis Hopper) from Easy Rider.
Hopper directed Easy Rider,
of course, and he also appeared as Clarence Worley’s father in True
is mentioned once by name in Tarantino’s new movie Once
Upon a Time… in Hollywood.
When the murderous Manson followers
show up in the Hollywood Hills, Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio)
yells at them, calling the guy in the car “Dennis Hopper,” an
obvious reference to the hippies in Easy Rider.
This scene in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood takes place in August 1969, and the murder that’s about to happen when Dalton comes out of his house would be a few weeks after Easy Rider premiered. Dalton would have known about that film, maybe seen it, and probably not liked it. Ironically, although that’s possibly the point, Easy Rider was indicative of an era of New Hollywood independent film – a major influence on Tarantino. What he did in The Nineties was a direct result of what happened in the late Sixties and Seventies.
Amusingly, if you like this sort of thing, Sydney Sweeney plays one of the Manson followers, though not one of any consequence in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Maybe Tarantino is making a comment on the way acting is sort of cyclical that way. Here is a young woman who appears in a series playing homage to an iconic character written by the director of a big movie that she also has a bit part in, released that same month…
Upon a Time in Hollywood is all
about actors, of course. And it’s no accident that the bad guy
character Rick Dalton plays during a major sequence in the film is
designed by makeup and wardrobe to look more or less like Dennis
Hopper’s character in Easy Rider,
a cowboy style hippie. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood
meandering and plotless
in a way that working in Hollywood often feels like, going from one
project to another and hoping you’re noticed, that you’re presence is
felt, that your role or the way you play it is big enough to get you
In his memoir On Writing Stephen King says that situational stories are better than plot driven stories, and so he’d probably like Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (also because it’s nostalgic for a time he probably enjoyed, cinematically speaking). But the situation in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is difficult to define. It’s more of a phase of life, something often vague and arbitrary, though easy enough to describe for an actor of that period.
Dalton was a 1950s TV cowboy, the lead in a long dead series, who’s now exploring other opportunities. These include guest appearances on similar shows with different leads, a stint making action and war movies, and possibly venturing into the spaghetti westerns popular in Italian Cinema at the moment.
the situation. Obviously a character study, and subtle in the way
that aging often is. By contrast, Dalton’s stunt double and bestie,
Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt) entertains no illusions about a fading
career. He’s resourceful and along for the ride.
really enjoy Once Upon a Time in Hollywood,
you really have to love
cinema, and by extension Los Angeles, and appreciate some history of
both. History, that is, that pays attention mostly to the look and
feel of the time and place more than the facts. Hollywood
Cinema has never been overly concerned with the facts of matters
anyway. The form of popular feature presentation hardly allows for
it, though honesty in this method of storytelling has more room to
Rick Dalton, living in the alternate universe Tarantino has created for him in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, is an inside out example of most of Tarantino’s early successes. Like John Travolta, who was playing the goofy sidekick to a wisecracking baby (voiced by Bruce Willis) in Look Who’s Talking (+ sequels) before he found renewed cool in Pulp Fiction. And David Carradine was nowhere to be found before Kill Bill. Rick Dalton is waiting for a director like Quentin Tarantino to come along and make him relevant again.
Tarantino acknowledges that it probably cannot happen, since Dalton is simply a character he made up, and one who’s likely to die soon-ish, if all that onscreen coughing is an indication of anything. He is also a heavy drinker and smoker. So maybe Dalton is the reason Tarantino made his early movies the way he did. And so all that’s left is make him a hero one last time. That’s why Once Upon a Time in Hollywood ends the way it does.
Transparency: I loved watching Margot Robbie play Sharon Tate in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, but the story isn’t about her at all, which is why I did not mention her above. There are a lot of complaints out there about Robbie/Tate not getting enough lines, having her conversations silenced by narration, that viewers never get inside her. Those are fair commentaries. While she’s lovely to see going to the movies in Westwood by herself to watch herself and appreciate the audience’s reaction to her performance in some terrible Dean Martin schlock, that’s about all her character gets to do. But we know what will eventually happen to her, and so seeing her go about her life innocently oblivious is devastating enough. It also creates a disturbing tension about how meaningless Rick Dalton’s struggles might be, considering what’s going to happen to his neighbor. Then again, maybe not.