5/5
NOTE: This is a repost of the original review published on January 11th.
Inherent Vice is a film of exotic taxonomy, a once-in-a-blue-moon sui generis that paves a road seen only by those who have breathed the smoke that so thickly permeates every frame. It is a pitch-perfect adaptation of its source material in that attempting to follow either of them provokes a joyous and resounding “What?”. In reference to any other movie, that would stand as a scathing criticism, and yet here, I cannot think of any praise more appropriate. It doesn’t so much unravel a spiraling mystery as it does revel in the serendipitous convolutions and eccentric happenstances of Thomas Pynchon’s novel, a vivid account of conspiracy and blackly comic hippiedom. Where most would have shaved, polished, and clarified, Paul Thomas Anderson realized that the destination isn’t always where the satisfaction lives; sometimes it’s, like, in the moment, man. A more disciplined view of this material would have perhaps yielded a more conventionally satisfying work, but why would you castrate something from a mind so bracingly unconventional?
Shasta Fay is a piece of work. A gorgeous young woman— one you share history with, no less— walks into your home without so much as a sound, and in her state of distress, she asks you to investigate the disappearance of her current lover. Let alone the fact you aren’t as over her as you militantly claim to be, something I can acutely relate to, but when you’ve seen as many movies as Larry “Doc” Sportello, you know this is the part of the story where the detective writes himself a blank check for cascades of trouble. Cool with Doc, however. After all, what’s one more for old time’s sake? This meeting between former sweethearts sets in motion a quote-plot-unquote that involves drug use, brainwashing cults, drug use, sexual deviance of the most quizzical kind, an aristocratic contractor named Mickey Wolfmann, and more drug use. Did I mention there were questionable substances involved at one point?
That, I’m happy to say, is all there is to divulge about the plot of Inherent Vice. To spoil any more would be to rob those unfamiliar with Pynchon’s work the pleasure of stumbling upon its many surprises, and “stumbling” may just be the perfect word. There is a complex web here, but it’s discovered in layers that don’t entirely reveal themselves. We’re led through with bits and pieces gathered through occasional moments of revelation in the form of conversations that seem to hide a quiet truth. This gives the movie a sense of tact that wouldn’t exist in a more traditional noir-inspired narrative. These moments of clarity, if you could call them that, feel real in the way people receive and propagate information; we never hear enough to piece together the complete story, and yet some kind of essence remains.
There are sprawling sections of dialog lifted straight and untouched from Thomas Pynchon’s novel, and these dense, ropey passages may ultimately prove too much of a chore for some. Even I began to notice the actors straining through the sheer viscosity of some of their lines, and certain scenes left me wondering how many takes were required to get them. As a writer and admirer of wordsmiths, however, I sat before it all completely entranced. The presence of these passages doesn’t just demonstrate how seamless the stitching of Paul Thomas Anderson’s inventions and the original text really is; they prove definitively that if the right person is behind the keyboard, speech and discourse can be just as cinematic as any sweeping vista or un-interrupted take. “Show, don’t tell” my foot, says I. Yes, it’s essentially a great bit of talking, but when it says mesmerizing things that are given center stage by some of the world’s greatest artists and performers in beautiful 35mm, why does it matter?
The retention of the novel’s prosaic flavor comes also in the form of a character named Sortilège, a friend to Doc in the book and in the film a narrator. What was the voice of Thomas Pynchon in the book is now the voice of Sortilège as she recounts Doc’s journey as she would a fond memory to a close friend. I recognized much of Pynchon’s third-person descriptions and wanderings of imagination being vocalized through her soft filter, and I imagine some will dismiss this as simply a device to patch together a film on the verge of implosion. I urge you to think again. Through the texture of her account, not only are we given a greater helping of the neon-lit nostalgia that is the lifeblood of this story, but no matter how much we want to relish that blood, we’re also fed with it a sadness that begins to infect the whole of the film right beneath our awareness.
For all the fun to be had and all of the episodic excursions, it is the soothing voice of Sortilège, often accentuated by Johnny Greenwood’s score, that the truth encoded in the wild vision eventually begins to settle in. What was sold to us as the American Dream, much like the reefer enjoyed by “hippie freaks” of all species and the occult healing therapies of the Chryskylodon Institute, is a drug to be sought after and cannibalized. Once it’s burned up and the high wears off, we move on to the next fix to distract ourselves from the festering hollow that exists beneath the skin of every human being. This thin backbone of melancholia is cushioned by the filmmaking, which at first feels counterintuitive and tonally jarring but evolves into something all too telling as we immerse ourselves further into this dope-addled world.
In the hands of anyone else, this would have been mounted with zip, pop and flair to inject it with the zaniness the writing appears to demand on its surface, but Paul Thomas Anderson looks deeper than that. His camera is constantly at rapt attention, with each shot maintaining a focus and measure that seems to scrutinize every infinitesimal movement of his actors and every word fluttering off the screen. He and cinematographer Robert Elswit are as fascinated by these characters and their ideas as Thomas Pynchon was when envisioning them. They are given the spotlight at all times, and not for a second is anything done to potentially distract us from the performances. How refreshing that proves to be when the performances are as nuanced and equally matched as the ones given by damn near everyone in what is a certifiably stacked cast list.
I could go on forever analyzing every tissue of this film— the attention to period detail, the typically sharp and often invisible editing of Leslie Jones, and every single instance of acting on display— but none of it would go any distance to selling you on the experience you’ll ultimately have. It is a deliberate beast, and perhaps too much so for its own good. Everything said here is, through my lens, utterly true, and yet the film will remain too distant and inscrutable for a great number of people. I can’t help them, nor do I lack an understanding of where they’ll be coming from. I wonder how I’d feel if I hadn’t read the book. Even more curiously, I wonder if others who have read the book will feel betrayed by the filmmakers having taken the most accessible Pynchon work and translating it into what might be the least accessible Paul Thomas Anderson film.
Which brings us to that most elusive and temperamental of creatures: the meaning of it all. What if there is none? What if, at the end of every case and every bad trip, we are left with nothing but the thirst for the next one? Of every possibility of human existence, that one remains the most fundamentally frightening, which is why the majority of our lives mindlessly running from it. Perhaps it’s that very vicious cycle and the coping mechanisms therein that define who we really are. Perhaps not. That’s your journey to take, and if you can take it with this film, perhaps it’s worth the occasional lapse into the impenetrable. Whatever the case may be, I can’t deny the power this film held over me for nearly two-and-a-half hours. Inherent Vice is the first movie I’ve seen in 2015, and if my viewing experience was to be trusted, that heralds great things for the twelve months to come.
Spencer Moleda is a freelance writer, script supervisor, and motion picture researcher residing in Los Angeles, California. His experience ranges from reviewing movies to providing creative guidance to fledgling film projects. You can reach him at: www.spencermoleda.com
Spencer Moleda is a freelance writer, script supervisor, and motion picture researcher residing in Los Angeles, California. His experience ranges from reviewing movies to providing creative guidance to fledgling film projects. You can reach him at: [email protected]