{"id":138605,"date":"2019-08-08T12:09:58","date_gmt":"2019-08-08T16:09:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=138605"},"modified":"2019-08-08T12:21:25","modified_gmt":"2019-08-08T16:21:25","slug":"whither-the-golden-penetrators","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/08\/08\/whither-the-golden-penetrators\/","title":{"rendered":"Whither The Golden Penetrators?"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Still from Once Upon a Time\u2026 in Hollywood<\/em><\/p><\/div>\n

In Los Angeles, 1968, Dennis Wilson was the beachiest of the Beach Boys, the only Boy who actually surfed. He was the cool guy with the cool car, cool shades, cool hair. When he admired his disheveled reflection in his California-shaped swimming pool, his steely blue eyes must\u2019ve told him: Dennis, you deserve it all<\/em>. True, his band\u2019s best years were behind him. And true, his divorce tarnished his reputation; his ex had told the court how he used to beat her. But as sure as his Ferrari purred\u2014as sure as that gold-record sun went swanning into the Pacific every evening\u2014Wilson was going to enjoy himself. With his pals Terry Melcher (Doris Day\u2019s son, a cool guy) and Gregg Jakobson (a total nobody, but still a cool guy), he formed a trio called the Golden Penetrators, who fancied themselves \u201croving cocksmen,\u201d as his ex put it. They vowed to seduce as many women as possible.<\/p>\n

Likely this oath was at the front of Wilson\u2019s mind when he picked up some hitchhiking hippie girls, escorting them to his mansion for \u201cmilk and cookies.\u201d Soon those teens, along with more teens and their leader, Charles Manson, were Wilson\u2019s full-time guests. Having reached peak cool guy, he bragged to the press: \u201cI LIVE WITH 17 GIRLS<\/small><\/a>.\u201d (Now this is just called living in Bushwick.) Ushering Manson, whom he called the \u201cWizard,\u201d into Hollywood, Wilson and his fellow Penetrators set the stage for some of the most infamous murders in American history.<\/p>\n

Though the Golden Penetrators, in their caricatured machismo, seem ready-made for a Quentin Tarantino film, they\u2019re strikingly absent from his latest, Once Upon a Time\u2026 in Hollywood<\/em>. In their place is Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), the cool guy with the cool et cetera, a washed-up stunt double who functions as a Wilson stand-in. Booth, too, is a generation behind the times. He is a relic of Westerns, where Wilson was a relic of surf rock. And Booth, too, is clinging to his glory days with rakish ease, trailed by rumors of the violence that ended his marriage. But when, like Wilson, he picks up a Manson girl, Booth does something astoundingly un-Wilson: he declines her advances. Eventually, his sobering encounter with the Manson Family allows him to prevent, with vintage cool-guy, ass-whooping skills, some of the most infamous murders in American history.<\/p>\n

Once Upon a Time\u2026 in Hollywood <\/em>is nominally a fairy tale (nominally<\/em> in two senses of the word), which is why it entertains these counterfactual revisions. In a fairy tale, Cliff Booth can say no to the sex that Dennis Wilson could not wait to say yes to. Cliff Booth can dispatch, with a bit of LSD-induced chutzpah, the same killers who stabbed and shot five people, including Sharon Tate, on Cielo Drive. Critics have found these deviations appealing or appalling; to me they felt inchoate, as if Tarantino had tinkered with the past only long enough to tire of it. Even if he wanted a storybook finale with a flamethrower, he didn\u2019t need to divest himself so completely of the era\u2019s history. Much of the reality would have served his revisionist ends.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

If Tarantino wanted grist for a happy ending, a thorough account of the crimes offers an embarrassment of riches: apocryphal episodes, shady walk-ons, and near-misses. Sharon Tate\u2019s mother, who investigated the murders for years, was convinced that Sharon wasn\u2019t supposed to be home that night; the killers struck because they believed she was gone. Plus, as the official story goes, Manson ordered his killers to the Tate house only because he knew that Terry Melcher\u2014of Golden Penetrators fame\u2014used to live there. Details like these go some way toward explaining our fascination with the murders: their arbitrariness makes them feel easily preventable. Tarantino is right to seize on that feeling, but the contrivances of his plot are nothing next to reality.<\/p>\n

And what of the era\u2019s upheaval, its anxieties and social frictions? You\u2019d hardly know it to watch Hollywood<\/em>, but in 1969 the world was changing, or so people thought. Student antiwar activism had roiled the Nixon administration; cherished institutions were being rocked at their foundations. The zeitgeist reached even the most insular quarters of Hollywood. Soon after the murders, Billy Doyle, a drug dealer to the stars who was one of the first suspects, told an LAPD detective that he had trouble separating the \u201cstraight\u201d people from the crazies. \u201cIn California,\u201d he explained, \u201ceverybody has a tan. Now, if people don\u2019t have a tan, they look a little different. You can see things in their face[s] that a tan covers up.\u201d It\u2019s a sentiment out of Raymond Chandler, hard-boiled, paranoid, but there\u2019s truth in it: in the land of the tan mask, poseurs and prodigies attended the same parties, passed the same joints, dreamed of the same ways to undercut the status quo. Seldom had the line between genius and lunatic worn so thin.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s little sense of this blurriness in Hollywood<\/em>. The camera turns away from questions of intent. The characters are suspicious of no one. Even on acid, Cliff Booth always knows the score. Only in his elliptical encounter with George Spahn (Bruce Dern, noticeably without a tan) does Booth see that he\u2019s been asleep at the wheel, has failed to grasp the times he lives in. Spahn owns an isolated ranch in Chatsworth where Westerns used to be filmed; now those dusty hills and old sets, the sites of so many of Cliff Booth\u2019s finest moments, have been infested by the Manson Family and left to rot. A bunch of hippies have cajoled an old man into surrendering his property\u2014and Spahn is loving it! How did this happen?<\/p>\n

Tarantino could\u2019ve brought such depth to the rest of his script had he not elided Dennis Wilson and his ilk, shaping them into the bowdlerized form of Booth. The fact that Booth may have killed his wife is only a gesture toward moral ambiguity, as if to concede that even in fairy tales, not all is cut-and-dried. Having inserted that asterisk, Tarantino is free to ignore the tangle of complicities that framed the sixties, embodied in men like the Golden Penetrators, whose appetites enabled Manson\u2019s rise. As young Hollywood insiders, the Penetrators could\u2019ve been his fairy tale\u2019s villains, a perfect foil both for Booth\u2019s old-school bravado and Sharon Tate\u2019s grace and innocence. Excising them and all that they stood for, Tarantino turns his fantasy into a farce.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t begrudge him his vision: a bloodbath in which Tate is spared and guys get to be dudes<\/a>, a fiction that gloats in its demented fictionality. Even barring Hollywood<\/em>\u2019s box-office success, it would be foolish to dismiss the thrill of seeing history reversed onscreen, a cosmic wrong righted by brawn and derring-do\u2014and by some of the most watchable stars of our age (no one is suggesting that Brad Pitt keep his shirt on). But the movie could\u2019ve accomplished all this\u2014its wry comment on Hollywood mythmaking, its revanchist make-believe\u2014without treating the sixties like an exotic backdrop. Hollywood <\/em>is set not in 1969 but \u201c1969,\u201d an ersatzville with a wide aspect ratio and a glut of winking. A film set is a controlled environment. But as with the real year, you get the sense that much of what happened on-screen was a chaotic accident.<\/p>\n

Dan Piepenbring is an advisory editor of\u00a0<\/i>The Paris Review\u00a0and the coauthor of\u00a0<\/i>Chaos: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Tarantino\u2019s newest film about the Manson murders ignores some of the strangest parts of history.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-138605","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhither The Golden Penetrators? by Dan Piepenbring<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"August 8, 2019 \u2013 Tarantino\u2019s newest film about the Manson murders ignores some of the strangest parts of history.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/08\/08\/whither-the-golden-penetrators\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Whither The Golden Penetrators? 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