“It’s groovy being insane man, where you at?”
Despite the phrasing, you may be saying the same of Paul Thomas Anderson’s Inherent Vice: where is this movie at?
But don’t take the hypnotic style, utterly confusing plot, or stoned out characters of 1970’s Los Angeles too seriously. After all the city, in actuality, had undergone a serious buzzkill at the hands of Charles Manson, putting to question the virtues of psychedelia and free love if it resulted in paranoia and murder. Such an attitude is seen in Vice, creating an awkward blend of sleepy, beachy noir, where everyone is still trying to get high, but it ain’t any good as it used to be. There is, at the center of this timeless, weightless-like stagnancy, a man getting high and still enjoying it, and, as a result, seems to be moving within a bubble of doper optimism. His quiet vulnerability shines through as the charming, sandals-and-shades “Doc” Sportello (an apt Joaquin Phoenix); a freelance detective of sorts that prefers doing his work in a constant ganja haze.
But his everyday toking is soon interrupted when he is thrown into the center of his former girlfriend’s current problems that involve her new billionaire lover, Mickey Wolfmann (Eric Roberts), and his wife… and her lover… and on top of that this former girlfriend, Shasta Fey Hepworth (Katherine Waterston), goes missing not long after Mickey. He also picks up a side job or two; one for Hope Harlingen (Jena Malone), a former drug addict turned drug counselor looking for her husband Coy (Owen Wilson), and another for Tariq Khalil (Michael Kenneth Williams), who’s looking for Glen Charlock, one of Mickey’s bodyguards who owes Khalil money. Then there’s conspiracies and mysteries Doc heads out to solve along the way.
Needless to say, weirdness ensues.
Vice, however, is not the first Paul Thomas Anderson flick to deviate from the cinematic norm; actually, all his films are deviants--try one about the ‘70s/’80s porn industry or ruthless 20th-century oilman, both set in the magical land of California. (I think there might be a trend.) Despite the likely pattern, Anderson almost always turns out a gem. His adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s novel is just the sort, as it highlights his skillful marriage of novel and film. Vice is meant to be a deeply complex stoner epic and it surely is.
While many may find it hard to follow, the true delight of Vice is found in its all-encompassing landscape. The style of the 1970’s bleeds into every frame, from the psychedelic clothing (and sometimes none at all) to the richly detailed settings--due largely in part to their expert showcasing by Robert Elswit, longtime Anderson cinematographer. It’s also pertinent to mention Vice was shot with 35mm film, which allows it to take on a much needed worn-in feel you can both see and believe. All of these well-formed details, like Doc watching Adam-12 (a show from the period), his willy muttonchops, the wood-paneling everything, and the relaxed (read: delayed) behaviors of the time, manage to transport you into this magical, psychotic world… All while being narrated by a young woman, Sortilège (Joanna Newsom), that may or may not be real. Either way, she recites some pretty cool passages straight from Pynchon’s novel via voiceover, echoing the film’s slow-paced and trance-like tone.
She is real, right?
As far as Doc’s quest goes, it goes, and for a short 148 minutes. He follows up on leads he struggles to remember, taking notes on their stories, yet they all manage to be marked as “hallucinating.” He also visits the locales he thinks are a step further in his case, but he really just stumbles onto them, much like the flashbacks that populate his mind and the film. He doesn’t do all his sleuthing alone either; help comes in, well, virtually all forms, but he mostly brushes shoulders with “Bigfoot” Bjornsen (a perfect Josh Brolin), an L.A.P.D. detective with a metaphorical hard-on for Doc despite his outward hippie hate. While his is the most memorable, we also meet a band of oddball characters that aid in Doc’s muddled quest.
Notable mentions include Martin Short as Dr. Rudy Blatnoyd D.D.S., an eccentric coke-snorting weirdo that openly has sex with his staff. There’s also Reese Witherspoon as D.A. Penny Kimball, who Doc sleeps with occasionally, and attorney-not-so-much Sauncho Smilax (no, not an actor, that would be Benicio Del Toro). Jade (Hong Chau) is also an adorable, little informant who originally sells Doc out to the police using the facade of a $14.95 p*ssy eating special.
Following on that last mental image, it isn’t hard to detect the offbeat goofiness that abounds Vice’s already strange narrative. There’s ongoing insinuations of oral sex on a popsicle, FBI agents accused of picking their noses, and a hippie version of the Last Supper (of course they ate pizza), in full frame splendor. It’s clear that being offbeat is Vice’s goal, to deviate from the cinematic norm in a heartfelt, uncomfortable, hilarious, delirious, confounding, upsetting, and bold way, all set under the simmer of L.A. where dreams are had and die.
Vice will confuse and delight some, but it will mainly do both to many and all who dare to dip into the mutterings of Pynchon’s esoteric world and Anderson’s sweeping imagination in bringing it alive.
And you will probably want to re-watch it--just to make sure whatever the hell you just saw actually did happen.
