Inherent Vice

The viewer will laugh. The viewer will be left in confusion. The viewer will ask “what the f*ck just happened” but Inherent Vice is a real treat. The viewer is dropped into Paul Thomas Anderson’s version of Thomas Pynchon’s novel, set in Los Angeles circa 1970, America’s hangover from the acid trip that was the 60's. The dialogue is intelligent, incoherent, and equal parts highbrow and lowbrow humor. If you can make out what the characters are saying, the movie is at its greatest.

The squares make it their daily business to beat the hippies off the street. But, there is so much sex, drugs, and vivacity that permeate Los Angeles. PTA uses lots of cool blues and hot oranges to create a color pallet that screams life, death, and neon. The world he creates is mired in mystery, but, then again, that could be the drugs, and there are a lot of drugs in this movie.

Doc (Pheonix) doesn’t so much delve into the mystery as get strung along by so many unseen puppeteers, the narrative happening organically, taking the viewer along the ride with no clear direction where it is going. There’s Christian “Bigfoot” Bjornsen (Brolin), an L.A. cop with a tragic chip on his shoulder and an unnervingly fetish for frozen, chocolate-covered bananas; he’s pulling some strings, to be sure. There’s Coy Harlingen (Wilson) a surf-jazz saxophonist who may or may not be working for either the government or nefarious right-wing agencies (they are often one and the same in this story). Add to that a host of ancillary characters, such as a maritime lawyer with an affinity for TV shows; a horny, coked-up dentist who ruts like a rabbit; and a mysterious outfit called the Golden Fang, which may be a tax shelter for a group of dentists or an international heroin cartel, making addicts from their product and then treating them for their addiction.

His blend of noir, slapstick, and melancholy takes both the weight and the levity, and the results are a bittersweet, sun-dappled reverie. Just shut up, and let the film take you on a joyride. 8/10