Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

by Quentin Tarantino

  Then Rick catches Cliff’s eye and indicates it’s time to bounce by placing his empty glass on the bar with a theatrical demonstration of finality.

  “And with that, Mr. Lancer, I bid you adieu. I got a shit-fuck ton of lines to learn tonight, and I better learn ’em or get my eggs scrambled tomorrow by that snotty little dynamo.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Nebraska Jim

  After bidding Jim Stacy and the regulars at the Drinker’s Hall of Fame adieu, Cliff drops Rick off at his house around ten-thirty that night. Enough time for Rick to study his lines for tomorrow’s work and hit the hay around midnight or twelve-thirty. As soon as Rick walks through the door, as per usual for every actor in the world, he checks in with his answering service to see if he’s received any important messages. And, sure enough, there is one from the agent Marvin Schwarz.

  Wow, that’s fast, Rick thinks.

  So he quickly dials the number the agent left, and Marvin picks up the phone on the third ring.

  Marvin Schwarz answers the phone, “Marvin Schwarz.”

  “Hello, Mr. Schwarz,” Rick says into the receiver, “it’s Rick Dalton.”

  “Rick my boy,” the agent gregariously answers, “so glad you called. I’ve got two words for you: Nebraska Jim—Sergio Corbucci.”

  “Nebraska what? Sergio who?” Rick asks.

  “Sergio Corbucci,” Marvin repeats.

  “And who’s that?”

  “The second-best director of spaghetti westerns in the whole wide world,” Marvin informs him. “He’s doing a new western. It’s called Nebraska Jim. And, because of me, he’s considering you.”

  “Nebraska Jim. Am I Nebraska Jim?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “So he’s offering it to me?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “So I don’t have it?”

  “What you have is a dinner. He just met three young actors. Thanks to me, he’s now meeting four. You, Thursday after next, Sergio and his wife, Nori, at his favorite Japanese restaurant in Los Angeles.”

  “Who’s the other three?” Rick inquires.

  Marvin rattles them off: “Robert Fuller, Gary Lockwood, Ricky Nelson, and Ty Hardin.”

  “That’s four,” Rick points out.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Marvin realizes. “Sorry about that, you’re five.”

  “Ricky Nelson?” Rick incredulously asks. “He’s considering fucking Ricky Nelson?”

  “Ah, honey boy,” Marvin reminds him, “Ricky Nelson was one of the stars of Rio Bravo. That’s a helluva better movie than any one you ever made.”

  “Look, Mr. Sch-Sch-Schwarz,” Rick stutters, “that’s terrific. But can I talk straight with you?”

  “Always,” Marvin says.

  “When it comes to this spaghetti-western stuff,” Rick starts.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t like ’em.”

  “You don’t like ’em?”

  “No I don’t. In fact, I think they’re awful.”

  “Awful?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many have you seen?”

  “A couple.”

  “So, this is your expert opinion?”

  “Look, Mr. Schwarz, I grew up watching Hopalong Cassidy and Hoot Gibson. This Italian cowboy shit just ain’t my bag.”

  “Because they’re awful?” the agent clarifies.

  “Yeah.”

  “As opposed to the high-quality red-letter work of Hopalong Cassidy and Hoot Gibson?”

  “C’mon, you know what I mean.”

  “Look, Rick,” the agent says, “I don’t want to be insensitive here, but your track record when it comes to motion pictures isn’t so stellar that you should be looking down your nose at feature films considering hiring you for leading roles.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Schwarz,” Rick concedes. “But maybe, instead of running off to Rome, it’s wiser for me to stay in town and give it my best shot next pilot season. I mean, somebody’s gonna get lucky; it just might be me.”

  “Look, kid,” Marvin says, “let me tell you a story about a client of mine. Before we sent cowboys to ride horses around the sets of Cinecittà, we used to send them to Berlin. Before the fuckin’ Italians got the bright idea to make westerns, the Germans got in the game.” Marvin explains, “You see, there was this German novelist named Karl May. And he wrote a series of books that take place in the American Northwest during the pioneer days. Now, the fact Karl May never set foot in America didn’t stop these books from becoming very popular with the German public.

  “The books follow the exploits of two men. One, an Apache chief named Winnetou. And the other, his white mountain-man blood-brother, Old Shatterhand. So, in the fifties, a German film company started making German movies based on these novels. They cast a French actor named Pierre Brice to play the Indian. But as Old Shatterhand I got them to cast my he-man American client, Lex Barker. Now, before Lex went to Germany, he did a few American movies. He even played Tarzan—and was a pretty fuckin’ good Tarzan, if you ask me. But he was married to Lana Turner. So no matter what he fuckin’ did, he was always Mr. Lana Turner.

  “So I get him the German picture. And he don’t wanna go. A German western? What the fuck is that? A German western with a French fuckin’ Indian?

  “He says, ‘Marvin, what the fuck are you trying to do to me? There’s gotta be a limit to what an actor will do for money.’ And I tell him, like I’m tellin’ you, ‘What’s your fuckin’ problem?

  “‘One, there’s not exactly a long line of people in America who want to hire you to star in their motion pictures.

  “‘Two, you’re not joining the fuckin’ Army. You go to Germany, make a movie—five weeks, six weeks—make some good money, come back. Easy peasy. In an’ out.’

  “So I get ’em to go. And the rest, as they say, is German cinema history.

  “The movie is a fuckin’ smash-ola! And not just in Germany but all over Europe. Lex ends up playing Old Shatterhand six times! He becomes one of the most popular actors in the history of German cinema! But his movies play all over Europe. He’s so popular in Italy, Fellini casts him in La Dolce Vita. And you know who he plays . . . Lex Barker! That’s how big a star he is.

  “After six movies, he retires from the role. They replace him with big American stars like Stewart Granger and Rod Cameron. But they don’t call them Old Shatterhand. They call them shit like Old Skatterhand, and Old Surehand, and Old Firehand. Why? Because everybody in Germany knows Lex Barker—and only Lex Barker—is Old Shatterhand!”

  The agent gets down to brass tacks: “Look, honey boy, you asked me could you speak straight with me. Well, now I’m gonna speak straight with you. You tried the TV-to-movies transition and it didn’t work. Well, it rarely works, so welcome to the fuckin’ club.” Using examples that don’t include Rick, Marvin says, “Yes, it worked for McQueen and it worked for Jim Garner and, most unbelievably of all, Clint Eastwood. But guys like you, Edd Byrnes, Vince Edwards, George Maharis, who spent your careers running pocket combs through your pompadours, you’re all in the same boat now.

  “When you weren’t looking, the culture changed.

  “You gotta be somebody’s hippie son to star in movies nowadays. Peter Fonda, Michael Douglas, Don Siegel’s kid Kristoffer Tabori, Arlo fuckin’ Guthrie! Shaggy-haired androgynous types, those are the leading men of today.”

  Marvin pauses for effect, then says, “You still wear a fuckin’ pompadour. Fuckin’ Elvis don’t wear a pompadour no more! Ricky fuckin’ Nelson don’t wear a goddamn pompadour no more! Edd fuckin’ ‘Kookie’ Byrnes is on TV doin’ commercials for fuckin’ hair spray, saying, ‘The wet head is dead, long live the dry look.’ Fuckin’ Kookie! But not you, Rick—you’re stickin’ with the fuckin’ pompadour!”

  Rick excitedly tells him, “Well, you know this thing I shot today, I didn’t wear a pompadour.”

  “Well, it’s about fuckin’ time!” Marvin says. “If you ask me you shoulda starte
d using hair spray and a hot comb years ago.”

  Then Marvin switches gears. “But that’s not the point. The point is, in Italy, you do what you want. You wanna suddenly get all flamboyant like Tony Curtis, have a ball. You wanna wear your hair like you did for the last twenty years, fuckin’ fine. Italians don’t give a shit. You know all this hippie shit all over town, all over America? Same shit happened in Rome. Difference: The Italians threw the bums out. Consequently, the youth culture didn’t dominate popular culture like these hippie faggots do over here.”

  “Hippie faggots,” Rick repeats under his breath with bitterness.

  Then the great Marvin Schwarz goes in for the close: “So Rick, here’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Where do you wanna be this time next year? In Burbank, getting your ass kicked in by that schvartze on Mod Squad? Or in Rome . . . starring in westerns?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Last Chapter

  Roman and Sharon Polanski are in their convertible English Roadster, speeding down the Sunset Strip. Sharon hates this car.

  She hates how old it is.

  She hates the noises it makes when Roman shifts gears.

  She hates the shitty radio reception it gets.

  But most of all she hates that it’s a convertible and that Roman always insists on driving it with the top down.

  Roman jokes with Warren Beatty that “Life’s too short not to drive a convertible.”

  That’s easy for him to say, with that pageboy hairstyle he wears. But Sharon works hard on getting her hair right. And after getting her hair done and looking fabulous, she must tie it up in a scarf?

  It’s a crime against beauty.

  The Hollywood couple have completed their appearance on Hugh Hefner’s TV show Playboy After Dark. It’s ten o’clock as they race away from the Sunset 9000 building, where the show is taped, and whiz by Ben Frank’s Coffee Shop and the Tiffany Theater, which features Andy Warhol’s Lonesome Cowboys on its marquee.

  Roman knows he shouldn’t have agreed to another event the day after the party at the Playboy Mansion, and he senses her hostile silence. He’s well aware she was planning to spend the night at home reading in bed. And he knows it’s much more work for her to get dolled up for these TV appearances than it is for him.

  Nevertheless, she did get dolled up, she did leave the house, and she did come through for him.

  But now comes the cold-war resentment. Sharon has such a sunny presence that whenever she blocks out the sun, the effect is chilling.

  On 93 KHJ, nighttime disc spinner Humble Harve keeps coming in and out of the Roadster’s shitty speakers, as does a ridiculous tune by Diana Ross and the Supremes, No Matter What Sign You Are, You’re Gonna Be Mine You Are. The time has come for Roman to show contrition and gratitude and poke the blond bear.

  “Look, darling,” he begins, “I know you didn’t want to do this tonight.”

  The red roof of the Der Wienerschnitzel on Larrabee is visible through the windshield of the Roadster as Sharon glances over at him and nods yes.

  He continues, “And I know you’re sore because I didn’t consult you and that was inconsiderate.”

  Again she shows her agreement by nodding her head.

  “And I know,” he continues, “you’re being very good-natured about this.”

  Actually, she bitched about it all afternoon with Jay, but Roman doesn’t know that.

  Finally, the blond sphinx speaks: “Yes, all those things are true.”

  “You’re being an angel about it,” he tells her, “and I love you for that.”

  Oh, so that’s why you love me? she thinks, and does an eye roll.

  The eye roll tells him that probably wasn’t the best thing he could have said.

  As they drive past the London Fog on one side of the Strip and the Whisky a Go Go on the other, Roman tries to parlay with her. “So, just know I know I owe you.”

  Quickly, she comes back with a question. “Owe me what?”

  “I mean, I owe you for doing this.”

  “I know. I agree. So what do you intend to do to pay me back?”

  Frankly, Roman hadn’t taken that statement as serious as Sharon apparently did, so he’s at a bit of a loss.

  “Well, I guess, I mean”—he’s thinking fast—“that you can suddenly commit me to something I don’t want to do.”

  Yeah, that’s it, he thinks. That would be pound-for-pound reciprocation.

  Giving her examples of what that could be, he says, “I mean, you come across some charity you’re really serious—”

  She interrupts him with two words: “Pool. Party.”

  “What?”

  “Pool. Party.”

  “Pool party? Sure. When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight.”

  “Oh, baby, I’m so tired. I’m leaving for London tomorrow. I was looking forward to going home and—”

  “Wah wah wah! That’s what I said last night when you committed us to this fucking thing. But where am I? I’m right here. All glammed up, doing my ‘sexy little me’ routine for Hugh Hefner, the television cameras, and a bunch of Hollywood dingbats.”

  Then she says, like an accusation, “You know I’m reading a book right now?”

  He nods his head yes.

  “You know I want to be in my bed reading right now?”

  He nods his head yes.

  “You know I don’t like to put on the dog two nights in a row if I don’t have to?”

  He nods his head yes.

  “But I did it, didn’t I?”

  Roman lets out a groan.

  “Don’t moan at me, buster,” she admonishes him.

  Roman tries to deflect. “You just had your hair done.”

  Nice try, buddy, Sharon thinks. “Is there some reason I’m unhip to that I need to have my Playboy After Dark hair tomorrow?”

  “No.” He shrugs, beaten.

  “No commitments I don’t know about? No personal appearances?”

  “No.”

  “I can read my book?”

  He answers with a sigh, “Yes.”

  “Well, then, pool party tonight means debt paid in full,” then adds for effect, “if that means anything to you?”

  “Okay,” says Roman, letting out a defeated exhale.

  “Okay, now say it with a smile on your face.”

  He smiles and says, “We can have a pool party.”

  Then she demands, “Now ask me for it.”

  That makes him roll his eyes. “Really? You’re taking it this far?”

  “Ask me for it,” she insists.

  Roman swallows his irritation, puts on an accommodating face, and gives Sharon what she wants: “Sharon, how would you like to throw a pool party tonight?”

  Sharon squeals, claps her hands together, and says, “Roman, that’s a fantastic idea!” She leans across to kiss him and says, “Let’s get home. I have phone calls to make.”

  Rick notices a steady line of cars arriving at the Polanski residence. They must be having a party, he thinks. Rick Dalton stands in his driveway, dressed in the red silk kimono he bought on one of his trips to Japan, watering the roses in his garden with a hose while he runs tomorrow’s dialogue with his tape recorder. A Japanese gardener once told him to water his roses at night so they fully get to drink the nourishment and not have the sun evaporate a large portion of it. He’s running the lines of the scene he has with the little girl tomorrow. No way is he going to let that little monster catch him flat-footed.

  Cliff had dropped him off from that bar in San Gabriel around ten-thirty.

  He talked to Marvin Schwarz on the phone for about twenty minutes. He made a German beer stein’s worth of whiskey sours and started running his lines. He’s run them for about an hour now—it’s five minutes to midnight, and he’s feeling pretty good about his grasp of the dialogue. Before he is tempted to make another beer stein full of whiskey sours, Rick’s going to go to bed.


  He can hear the sounds of the Polanski party echo down to his driveway. He can hear the music, the giggling, the frivolity, and the periodic splashes in the pool. The actor still has yet to meet either the director or his wife. He only spied the two of them for the first time yesterday afternoon. He looks like a little prick. But she looks sweet. Maybe one day he’ll catch her going to fetch the mail.

  A convertible Porsche going much too fast zooms up Cielo Drive and stops outside of the gate of the Polanski residence. Rick gives the car an irritated glance, then suddenly stops when he recognizes the driver. Fuck me swinging, that’s Steve McQueen!

  Rick calls out, “Steve!”

  The driver behind the wheel of the Porsche glances over in the direction of his name being called and sees a guy dressed in a red silk Japanese kimono, holding a beer stein, a tape recorder, and a water hose. He narrows his eyes, then he recognizes the red kimono man. He tentatively answers back, “Rick?”

  Dalton walks over to the car. “Hey, fella, long time no see.”

  McQueen answers back, “Yeah, you bet. How ya been?”

  Dalton leans over and shakes hands with McQueen, “Oh, I can’t complain.”

  Actually, Rick has nothing but complaints about his career, his life, and the world, but he’s not going to complain to Steve.

  The movie star looks past him to the house. “Is that your house?”

  “Yep.” Rick smiles. “That’s the house that Bounty Law built.”

  McQueen raises his eyebrows. “You built it?”

  “No,” Dalton says, “that’s just an expression.” You dumb fuck.

  Steve gives him one of his trademark little smiles with his tiny gash of a mouth. “Well, good for you. You were smart with your money. I hear Will Hutchins and Ty Hardin are flat on their ass right now.”

  In other words, Rick thinks, you’re doing better than the other has-beens. You got a house. So says Bullitt.