I'll say it—this feels wrong.
The kind of wrong where you rewatch a Quentin Tarantino movie and realize the guy making it probably hates sequels more than he hates digital projection. But here we are: a Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood “follow-up” is coming to Netflix. Not a sequel. Not a reboot. A follow-up. Whatever that means in a post-streaming, IP-cannibalizing era.
And guess what? Tarantino isn't directing it. David Fincher is. Yes, Se7en's David Fincher. Brad Pitt's back as Cliff Booth. DiCaprio might return as Rick Dalton. But Tarantino? He's just writing the damn thing and walking away.
Wait, what?
You read that right. According to The Big Picture podcast, this isn't a real sequel—it's more like cinematic jazz. Same universe, different vibe. Think Farewell, My Lovely and The Big Sleep—not Iron Man 2. It's 1977 now. Cliff is older, maybe weirder. Rick Dalton's probably deep into his whiskey-commercial years. And yet, this is the world Netflix chose to revisit—one drenched in vintage Americana, dusty cowboy boots, and flame-throwers.
But here's the kicker: Tarantino, the man who once called Netflix films invisible in the cultural zeitgeist, is handing over his golden-era Hollywood sandbox to the king of digital darkness. It's like Elvis giving his jumpsuit to Trent Reznor.
Why this matters (even if it shouldn't):
Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood was never screaming for a sequel. It wrapped itself in a perfect bow—revisionist history, heartache, and a bittersweet ode to a Tinseltown that never really existed. It was supposed to be Tarantino's penultimate love letter before his supposed tenth and final film.
So why go back? Why now? Why Netflix?
Some speculate it's the result of a bizarre IP deal—Tarantino owns the characters, Sony owns the title. Others think he's prepping his final curtain call and just wants to write, not direct. (The guy did write a full novelization of Once Upon, after all.) Either way, this smells like a compromise. And Tarantino rarely compromises. That alone should make fans nervous.
And then there's Fincher. A director known for emotional sterility, cold logic, and moral decay, stepping into the sun-kissed, acid-tripping nostalgia of Tarantino's Hollywood? It's like dropping Anton Chigurh into The Brady Bunch.
Look, maybe it'll work. But probably not.
You'll either love this or hate it. Here's why: Cliff Booth, as played by Brad Pitt, is a mystery wrapped in a Hawaiian shirt. He's charming, violent, maybe even a murderer (remember the wife thing?). A spin-off could unbox his secrets—or ruin the mystique entirely.
Fincher might elevate the noir. Or he might turn this into a brooding postmodern dirge. Netflix might pour money into making it gorgeous. Or they might algorithm it to death. Whatever happens, it's already dividing fans.
Because deep down, this wasn't supposed to be a franchise. It was a fairy tale. And fairy tales don't get sequels. Not good ones, anyway.
Tarantino once said, “If you just love movies enough, you can make a good one.” But what happens when Hollywood loves a movie too much to let it end?
Would you watch a Tarantino world without Tarantino's hands on the wheel? Drop your thoughts—or flamethrowers—below.
