Paul Thomas Anderson is such an important filmmaker at this point that he can make a minor movie without prompting very much alarm. There’s simply no mistaking Inherent Vice, the seventh and least of his pictures to date, as anything other than a small-scale diversion. It lacks pretensions of greatness and none of the stark, deliberate formalism of There Will Be Blood or The Master. This adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s 2009 novel is wacky to the point of near incoherence. That’s not in and of itself completely a bad thing: the vibrancy and spontaneity that Anderson showed in previous pictures was not evident in his more recent work. And for all the raunchy jokes in The Master, its dark outlook and imposing director-as-all-seeing-god, subjects-as-ants on inspection approach meant the levity didn’t really stick out as much as it could have. Reminding the world that in addition to being a serious artist he has done directing work on SNL and loves comedies like Ted is probably wise. Inherent Vice is not as funny as it should be, can be dull, and is at times quite tedious. Yet even though it mostly doesn’t work, it’s hard to argue that it’s not on the right wavelength, at least of what Anderson should do at this point in his career.
Joaquin Phoenix, as he did with his astonishing man-as-drunken animal part in The Master, leads a strong ensemble. The year is 1970 and he is truly a creature of the hippie-dropout era. He plays the mutton-chop sporting Larry “Doc” Sportello (he looks like a lazy, aimless Wolverine on a bad trip), a private eye who stumbles his way through cases under the fog of marijuana or whatever other mind-altering substances he can get his hands on. Inherent Vice begins with an unexpected visit from Shasta, the ex he never got over (played seductively by Katherine Waterson) who asks for his help as her current boyfriend – a wealthy Los Angeles real estate tycoon named Mickey Wolfmann (Eric Roberts) – has gone missing, and his wife and her lover have hatched a nefarious scheme to have him admitted to a mental institution.
The tone of those opening scenes are assured, yet relaxed. The dialogue lays out what’s happening, but not in an over-explanatory way (Doc and Shasta talk to each other like people mired in a sticky predicament, not merely characters neatly informing you of the plot). It only gets murkier and more confusing from there. Some additional guidance is provided throughout by Joanna Newsom’s narration (the singer also plays one of Doc’s close friends) in which she occasionally questions what we’re seeing and drops gems that sound like they could be culled from one the artist’s own lyric sheets like “the Sagittarian light of a higher mind.”
No amount of narration, however, could make Inherent Vice particularly easy to follow. You get the sense that this goofy noir doesn’t care to be either. Doc’s investigation gets windier and loopier as it goes, like every step forward is at once a step forward and a couple steps sideways. Much of the hilarity in the film stems from his reaction to what he’s seeing and watching him in a few key scenes try to pass himself off as sober and professional. Every new discovery yields a new complication and a new colorful character to go with it. There’s Roberts as the missing Wolfmann, a Jew with an odd desire to be a Nazi who surrounds himself with bikers from the Aryan Brotherhood. Michael K. Williams shows up as a man looking to get back money from someone he did time with in prison–who just happens to be one of Wolfmann’s bodyguards. Benicio Del Toro has a terrific part as Doc’s lawyer. Reese Witherspoon is an assistant D.A. and Doc’s current squeeze. There’s Martin Short in a zany part as a drug-snorting, sleazy tail-chasing dentist. Owen Wilson plays a man who disappeared on his wife (Jena Malone) and might be a double agent. Josh Brolin is the biggest scene-stealer of them all as “Bigfoot” Bjornsen, a self-described “renaissance cop.” He’s one of the most intriguing and capable actors we’ve got right now and here he’s incredibly funny in a part that starts off stiff-ass fascist-cop but takes colorful turns.
For the most part though, Inherent Vice is the kind of project you either click with or don’t. I didn’t. The work put in to transfer a book widely deemed unfilmable from the page to the screen is certainly commendable. The druggy vibe is impeccable: the entire movie in a haze of sorts (right down to the cinematography, by longtime Anderson collaborator Robert Elswit). Unlike his previous two movies, Anderson doesn’t really tee up any moment for intensified dramatic effect (it’s filmmaking unembellished by exclamation marks) and yet it’s not really a return to the exuberant feel of his ’90s work either. Entire conversations between characters are frequently barely more audible than a whisper. Unfortunately he doesn’t really establish much of anything like a cohesive rhythm, and the stoned lack of energy can make the whole thing feel like it’s dragging. The meandering transitions from scene to scene are like sketches stapled together. Some of the jokes too (like Brolin’s character’s fondness for frozen chocolate bananas, which look like you-know-what when eaten) are downright sophomoric.
Anderson’s massive appreciation for the late Robert Altman is no secret (he was a stand-by director on A Prairie Home Companion and his There Will Be Blood was in fact dedicated to him). If Magnolia was Anderson’s Short Cuts, then this is practically an homage to The Long Goodbye. It’s a bizarre yet bold detour from the forty-four year old director who is amassing one of the most impressive filmographies of any American filmmaker in decades. It’s also the first of his movies I haven’t loved, and don’t crave returning to. Anderson can probably go on to do any project he wants from here. Preferably that will mean a return to his own artistic vision – not adherence to an established author’s – and the kind of movies that could even conceivably be praised, or over-praised, as masterpieces.
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