Inherent Vice opens in 1970, and Joaquin Phoenix is Doc, our Marlowe buried under a poof of hippie hair squinting through a thick cloud of pot smoke. And as these stories must go, it begins with a woman walking into his office who needs help—an ex-lady, no less. From there, the handful of threads come unspooled leading to massage parlors, mental health clinics, and a pad in Topanga Canyon where a surf rock band host its ongoing love-in. Recounting the details here would be utterly pointless, and it’s the nature of the story where our path diverges.
I absolutely adored Inherent Vice—probably my favorite film that was technically released in 2014—but I’m not misguided enough to ignore what people will despise about this picture. Before I really let this old windbag blow, it’s important to point out the noticeable shortcomings of this project. The film is in various degrees sloppy, tedious, meandering, and totally self-indulgent.
All of P.T. Anderson’s auteuristic tics are on full display. An untold number of references to other films and counterculture nods worm their way through the movie. There’s even one scene, as featured in the trailer, where a bunch of stoners gather round a table for a pizza feast and create a visual reference to the last supper. Some of the sexuality—both repressed and overt—is sophomoric to the point of childish. The film is, at times, completely ludicrous. A significant portion of the dialogue is inaudible. No kidding, the title of the film is used as a line of dialogue. But if you’re anything like me, all of the above—when deftly deployed—equates to a ragged, lovely piece of cinema.
Where I don’t believe this is PTA’s best movie, Inherent Vice is a consolidation point of his powers as a filmmaker. Striking a precarious balance between titillation, melodrama, black comedy, and character piece, all of his Altman as Cassavetes (or is it Cassavetes as Altman?) prowess is on display. With a universe of big name players in bit parts—Reese Witherspoon, Benicio Del Toro, the exceptional Josh Brolin—the film is charming in its maddening sprawl. Katherine Waterson and Joanna Newsome also deserve their due for fine, fitting performances in PTA’s unhinged universe of burnouts.
To that end, the movie feels like a Pynchon novel reads: a commendable accomplishment by any stretch. Every bit a stoner/drug movie, the 1970 backdrop is the natural habitat for this discursive epic. The tension of the post-war years given way to the revolt of the '60s fizzled out into the drug induced hippie haze of the '70s. Counterculture has been adopted by the square world, and drugs have driven everyone mad.
The hippies trade in psychobabble and talk of chakra points. The squares vacillate between liberal guilt and extreme superficiality. Up to and including the belief a person deserves to be murdered if they have sex in a tacky enough hotel room. Part satire, part swan song, a pinch of surrealism, Inherent Vice is a convergence zone where the no-account hippie and the overzealous cop are the lone holdouts. Everything else is a blurred world of session musician informants, hippie girls gone straight, squares grabbing at a higher plane of actualization via LSD benders, drug dealers gone the way of vertical integration, and pizza. Always pizza.
Overly wordy readings aside, free of all the loving nods to a lineage of L.A. crime stories, my favorite aspect of Inherent Vice is it’s a joyful film. Not in spite of the silliness, but embracing the silliness, it feels like Anderson had a total blast making this one. In a year of big name directors but few good films, a pattern of consuming self-seriousness has dogged cinema in 2014. With this picture, Anderson throws it all out the window and lets this grubby, manic bastard of a movie shuffle across screen with a joint perched between its lips and a peace sign in the air.
Inherent Vice is a California detective story. And you know why they make California detective stories? Because a mystery is the ideal vehicle for pinging between the disparate freaks and weirdos edging the left coast. California has enough land, cars, and sunshine abutting with the unknowable ocean for the Linkhorn gene to really take hold of some intrigue. Grisly crimes, femme fatales, the requisite land baron, all hallmarks of the Golden State hard-boiled, but whether it’s The Big Sleep, The Long Goodbye, The Big Lebowski, or Anderson’s sublime, frustrating Inherent Vice, you recognize the question has never been unraveling the crime at hand, but trying to decode the most enduring mystery of all: other people.
—Monte Monreal
I absolutely adored Inherent Vice—probably my favorite film that was technically released in 2014—but I’m not misguided enough to ignore what people will despise about this picture. Before I really let this old windbag blow, it’s important to point out the noticeable shortcomings of this project. The film is in various degrees sloppy, tedious, meandering, and totally self-indulgent.
All of P.T. Anderson’s auteuristic tics are on full display. An untold number of references to other films and counterculture nods worm their way through the movie. There’s even one scene, as featured in the trailer, where a bunch of stoners gather round a table for a pizza feast and create a visual reference to the last supper. Some of the sexuality—both repressed and overt—is sophomoric to the point of childish. The film is, at times, completely ludicrous. A significant portion of the dialogue is inaudible. No kidding, the title of the film is used as a line of dialogue. But if you’re anything like me, all of the above—when deftly deployed—equates to a ragged, lovely piece of cinema.
Where I don’t believe this is PTA’s best movie, Inherent Vice is a consolidation point of his powers as a filmmaker. Striking a precarious balance between titillation, melodrama, black comedy, and character piece, all of his Altman as Cassavetes (or is it Cassavetes as Altman?) prowess is on display. With a universe of big name players in bit parts—Reese Witherspoon, Benicio Del Toro, the exceptional Josh Brolin—the film is charming in its maddening sprawl. Katherine Waterson and Joanna Newsome also deserve their due for fine, fitting performances in PTA’s unhinged universe of burnouts.
To that end, the movie feels like a Pynchon novel reads: a commendable accomplishment by any stretch. Every bit a stoner/drug movie, the 1970 backdrop is the natural habitat for this discursive epic. The tension of the post-war years given way to the revolt of the '60s fizzled out into the drug induced hippie haze of the '70s. Counterculture has been adopted by the square world, and drugs have driven everyone mad.
The hippies trade in psychobabble and talk of chakra points. The squares vacillate between liberal guilt and extreme superficiality. Up to and including the belief a person deserves to be murdered if they have sex in a tacky enough hotel room. Part satire, part swan song, a pinch of surrealism, Inherent Vice is a convergence zone where the no-account hippie and the overzealous cop are the lone holdouts. Everything else is a blurred world of session musician informants, hippie girls gone straight, squares grabbing at a higher plane of actualization via LSD benders, drug dealers gone the way of vertical integration, and pizza. Always pizza.
Overly wordy readings aside, free of all the loving nods to a lineage of L.A. crime stories, my favorite aspect of Inherent Vice is it’s a joyful film. Not in spite of the silliness, but embracing the silliness, it feels like Anderson had a total blast making this one. In a year of big name directors but few good films, a pattern of consuming self-seriousness has dogged cinema in 2014. With this picture, Anderson throws it all out the window and lets this grubby, manic bastard of a movie shuffle across screen with a joint perched between its lips and a peace sign in the air.
Inherent Vice is a California detective story. And you know why they make California detective stories? Because a mystery is the ideal vehicle for pinging between the disparate freaks and weirdos edging the left coast. California has enough land, cars, and sunshine abutting with the unknowable ocean for the Linkhorn gene to really take hold of some intrigue. Grisly crimes, femme fatales, the requisite land baron, all hallmarks of the Golden State hard-boiled, but whether it’s The Big Sleep, The Long Goodbye, The Big Lebowski, or Anderson’s sublime, frustrating Inherent Vice, you recognize the question has never been unraveling the crime at hand, but trying to decode the most enduring mystery of all: other people.
—Monte Monreal
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