Given his wandering and seemingly aberrant focus in The Master, a story that could only truly be effective through a tightly-wound, coherent plot line, Paul Thomas Anderson may have decided to adapt Thomas Pynchon's novel next because it fits so perfectly with his current style of narrative interest. Starting with small-focused, character-oriented stories with ensemble casts that caused comparisons to Robert Altman, PTA has gradually drifted away from such into such diverse genres as bleak comic-tragedy, melodramatic early 20th century American ambition and the aimless lifestyle of post-World War II citizens. Now, he moves down one more generation into the drug- addled, loose-fit lives of California in 1970. Though this story comes from Pynchon, it would seem that Anderson has been ready to tell this type of story for years.
If Joaquin Phoenix needed paint thinner mixed with alcohol to calm his nerves and give him direction in trying to adapt to regular life after World War II, all he needs here is a ramshackled bungalow on the beach, plenty of cigarettes and weed and a few compliant women to satisfy his desires. Wearing giant sideburns and a curly, moppy hairdo, Phoenix once again immerses himself into this private detective role, 'Doc' Sportello, talking to himself incoherently, staring at various points around him and still somehow able to grasp all the information and informants who come barreling at him after his ex-girlfriend stops by unexpectedly to request his help in stopping an alleged plot to kidnap and rid Los Angeles of its wealthiest real estate developer. Yet, this may all be a simple excuse for both Pynchon and Anderson to explore such a fascinating time in recent American history; a time when the Manson murders hung heavily in the air, there seemed to be little if any worries about larger sociopolitical issues, and still most people are caught up in some way or another with illegal and lethal activities.
Such callous behavior may be the reason behind the intriguing title, which refers to physical objects losing their fundamental ability to stop deterioration. Indeed, at a certain point, Doc's ex-girlfriend returns once again surprisingly and declares herself to be inherent vice in the case. Of course, this could apply to nearly everyone he encounters, including himself, yet perhaps what drew Anderson to this story is how blissfully unaware everyone is of their decrepit state of mind. Anderson occupies much of the frame with a thin, hazy layer of smoke and mist, which may not only be from the copious amounts of marijuana but also the lack of care these people seem to have for their personal belongings and materials. Despite many mentions of Charles Manson, most people are quite laid-back and wander around southern California as if there was little, if any, care in the world. Even when something important does arise, such as a man trying to escape his present status and return to his abandoned family, there is a rather light-hearted touch to it all. Anderson, like Pynchon, is not interested in judging these people at all; he simply is intrigued by their indifference and susceptibility to get themselves into precarious situations, either personal or otherwise.
Many of the actors have commented on Anderson's chaotic yet controlled method of shooting, although all have remarked how pleased and satisfied they were with the end result. Such improvisation may not be considered a hallmark of Anderson's filmmaking, yet here it seems perfectly natural. The soundtrack consists of a healthy mixture of Jonny Greenwood original tracks as well as Neil Young and a slew of early 1960s doo-wop songs which continue the feeling of laid-back nostalgia. Phoenix ties it all together with his whimsical, yet focused perspective in trying to solve a case seemingly for his beloved ex, although he has no commitments to anyone. Various cameos also work without becoming a distraction. Reese Witherspoon has beautiful, surealistic chemistry with Phoenix and Katherine Waterston is eerily angelic in her role, looking much like Jennifer Lawrence probably will in ten years.
There really cannot be much to either approve or disapprove of in this story. The payoff is rather dull, but this is no ordinary Chinatown-like neo-noir. If Pynchon is only interested in such a story as a launching pad, Anderson is only interested to the point of being able to satisfy his own notions of what life must have been like during that brief period when the so-called "hippie movement" seemed to have failed its most ardent supporters and the call of capitalistic achievement turned the nation's attention away from its seemingly endless social and cultural issues. What is America's inherent vice? Doc could tell us if only he cared, or was sober enough, to remember.
If Joaquin Phoenix needed paint thinner mixed with alcohol to calm his nerves and give him direction in trying to adapt to regular life after World War II, all he needs here is a ramshackled bungalow on the beach, plenty of cigarettes and weed and a few compliant women to satisfy his desires. Wearing giant sideburns and a curly, moppy hairdo, Phoenix once again immerses himself into this private detective role, 'Doc' Sportello, talking to himself incoherently, staring at various points around him and still somehow able to grasp all the information and informants who come barreling at him after his ex-girlfriend stops by unexpectedly to request his help in stopping an alleged plot to kidnap and rid Los Angeles of its wealthiest real estate developer. Yet, this may all be a simple excuse for both Pynchon and Anderson to explore such a fascinating time in recent American history; a time when the Manson murders hung heavily in the air, there seemed to be little if any worries about larger sociopolitical issues, and still most people are caught up in some way or another with illegal and lethal activities.
Such callous behavior may be the reason behind the intriguing title, which refers to physical objects losing their fundamental ability to stop deterioration. Indeed, at a certain point, Doc's ex-girlfriend returns once again surprisingly and declares herself to be inherent vice in the case. Of course, this could apply to nearly everyone he encounters, including himself, yet perhaps what drew Anderson to this story is how blissfully unaware everyone is of their decrepit state of mind. Anderson occupies much of the frame with a thin, hazy layer of smoke and mist, which may not only be from the copious amounts of marijuana but also the lack of care these people seem to have for their personal belongings and materials. Despite many mentions of Charles Manson, most people are quite laid-back and wander around southern California as if there was little, if any, care in the world. Even when something important does arise, such as a man trying to escape his present status and return to his abandoned family, there is a rather light-hearted touch to it all. Anderson, like Pynchon, is not interested in judging these people at all; he simply is intrigued by their indifference and susceptibility to get themselves into precarious situations, either personal or otherwise.
Many of the actors have commented on Anderson's chaotic yet controlled method of shooting, although all have remarked how pleased and satisfied they were with the end result. Such improvisation may not be considered a hallmark of Anderson's filmmaking, yet here it seems perfectly natural. The soundtrack consists of a healthy mixture of Jonny Greenwood original tracks as well as Neil Young and a slew of early 1960s doo-wop songs which continue the feeling of laid-back nostalgia. Phoenix ties it all together with his whimsical, yet focused perspective in trying to solve a case seemingly for his beloved ex, although he has no commitments to anyone. Various cameos also work without becoming a distraction. Reese Witherspoon has beautiful, surealistic chemistry with Phoenix and Katherine Waterston is eerily angelic in her role, looking much like Jennifer Lawrence probably will in ten years.
There really cannot be much to either approve or disapprove of in this story. The payoff is rather dull, but this is no ordinary Chinatown-like neo-noir. If Pynchon is only interested in such a story as a launching pad, Anderson is only interested to the point of being able to satisfy his own notions of what life must have been like during that brief period when the so-called "hippie movement" seemed to have failed its most ardent supporters and the call of capitalistic achievement turned the nation's attention away from its seemingly endless social and cultural issues. What is America's inherent vice? Doc could tell us if only he cared, or was sober enough, to remember.