Inherent Vice

Somethings a little off in Paul Thomas Andersons cinematic excursion into the literary wilds of Thomas Pynchons Inherent Vice. Its tough to pinpoint where the equilibrium goes flooey, mostly because Anderson the best and most audaciously original filmmaker of his generation cant compose a dull shot or one that doesnt pulsate with the infinite mathematical possibilities for fucking up that circulate within the human psyche. Inherent Vice is packed with shitfaced hilarity, soulful reveries, stylistic ingenuity and smashing performances that keep playing back in your head. It may not demand repeat viewings, but it sure as hell rewards them. Its the work of a major talent.

And yet, its a struggle. If forced to diagnose the problem, Ill have to go with Andersons understandable, if excessive loyalty to Pynchon, a gnarly genius of a writer whose near-Joycean language defies translation into other forms. The filmmaker takes babysteps into the minefields erected by the hermit author, 77, who rivals J.D. Salinger in reclusiveness. Anderson is not climbing the Pynchon mountain, the Old Testament of cyberpunk that is Gravitys Rainbow. Inherent Vice is regarded as a playful throwaway. Its set in Southern California in 1970 (Andersons birth year) just as the psychedelic Age of Aquarius with its peace-love-stoned sense of community is being replaced by the decade of Manson, Altamont, Nixon and Me Me Me. Inherent Vice is a film noir laced with pot and shrooms and the sense of lost ideals. And, yeah, lost fun too. Its definitely in Andersons wheelhouse.

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It would be a kick to see Anderson take this material and go it alone. But Pynchon is with him at every turn and right from the start. The setup intros us to our guide, Larry Doc Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix), a private eye in a perpetual haze in his beach bungalow. Phoenix, unwashed and unfettered, plays him to the manner born. A visitor wakes Doc. Shes his former flame, Shasta Fay Hepworth, played with slinky carnality by Katherine Waterston (daughter of Sam). Like every dame in the crime fiction of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, she needs help. But wait. Before we get the plot moving, we get voiceover. It comes from Docs ex-assistant, Sortilege (singer-songwriter Joanna Newsom). She has things to tell us about Shasta:

She came along the alley and up the back steps the way she always used to. Doc hadnt seen her for over a year. Nobody had. Back then it was always sandals, bottom half of a flower-print bikini, faded Country Joe & the Fish T-shirt. Tonight she was all in flatland gear, hair a lot shorter than he remembered, looking just like she swore shed never look.

Its lovely stuff, gorgeously rendered by Newsom. But the words are straight from Pynchon, the very first paragraph of his book, and the movie stops to let us hear them. Anderson is tipping his hat to Pynchon, which he will do frequently, but this PTA enthusiast yearns to see him show, not tell. In his six previous films (Hard Eight, Boogie Nights, Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love, There Will Be Blood, The Master), Anderson let the stories flow from his own fervid imagination. There Will Be Blood drew on Upton Sinclairs 1927 novel Oil, but barely and not so as youd recognize it. Inherent Vice plays like a collaboration, a sign of respect to a virtuoso. Its Andersons first constricted film, the one that never completely breaks free.

And yet, the movies pleasures are undeniable. The plot, such as it is, kicks in when Shasta persuades Doc to find to find her new love, Mickey Wolfmann (Eric Roberts), a real-estate tycoon whose wife wants him institutionalized. The search leads through an L.A. turf brimming with the surfers, New-Agers, Nazi bikers, acid heads, tax-dodging dentists and mysterious consortium called the Golden Fang. The mood has the loose, easy feel of 1973s The Long Goodbye, a hypnotic update on Raymond Chandlers private eye Philip Marlowe (Elliot Gould) from Andersons beloved mentor, Robert Altman. You can barely stop and smell the patchouli before the inevitable pileup of characters a coke-addled dentist (a terrific Martin Short,) with a thing for an underage heiress (Sasha Pieterse), a missing musician (Owen Wilson) with a junkie wife (Jenna Malone), an assistant D.A. (Reese Witherspoon) who takes Doc to bed, and a lawyer (Benicio Del Toro) who keeps Doc on the go. Its definitely overload, but I still missed the books Las Vegas interlude. I also missed the period atmosphere since the great cinematographer Robert Elswit is mostly restricted to closeups.

The actors earn the close attention, most of all Josh Brolin, who gives the film a seismic charge as buzz-cut cop Bigfoot Bjornsen, who does extra work on the TV series Adam-12. Not only does Brolin get big laughs, he breaks your heart when he finally opens up to Doc about who he really is.

There you have it. Inherent Vice, brilliantly scored by Jonny Greenwood, is an Anderson head trip, impure jazz with a reverb that can leave you dazed, confused and even annoyed. But at no time do you doubt that you are in the hands of a master.