The sense that this is a movie about and for men is underlined by the prominence of one of Tarantino’s best-known on-screen fetishes. Bare, slender female feet are consistently featured in the foreground of the image, pressed against car windows, tromping down hot L.A. sidewalks, and propped on dashboards or (disgustingly) on the backs of theater seats. The prominence of feet is such that it’s hard not to think Quentin is just trolling us—an “ain’t I perverse?” gag that might be funnier had we not last year heard allegations from Uma Thurman, one of Tarantino’s erstwhile muses and favorite foot models, about being mistreated and endangered on the set of Kill Bill. (Tarantino disagrees with Thurman’s version of the events.)

showdown.

pregnant Sharon Tate and her four guests were slaughtered that summer by members of the Manson cult.

The convulsively brutal climax I wouldn’t dare to spoil. The finale is a wonder. Has there ever been a scene so simultaneously euphoric and heartbreaking? Tarantino’s dream world is a sadistic place, but in a way it’s sublime, like heaven nestled inside hell.

Next door to Rick on Cielo Drive in the Hollywood Hills live Roman Polanski — super-hot off Rosemary’s Baby — and his young bride, Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie), whom we know going in will be butchered on the night of August 9, 1969, by Manson family members at the behest of their psychotic overlord.

Discomfort is built into the relationship, because Cliff can’t get work on his own (there’s a scandal in his past) and because Rick no longer has the clout to ensure that Cliff will be hired along with him.