Paul Thomas Anderson was making serious movies long before he started making "serious" movies, ponderous works of certified art like There Will Be Blood and The Master. His earliest pictures, like Hard Eight and Boogie Nights, were wily, imperfect, vibrating with life. They were serious without advertising their sincerity, and their raggedy, stringy edges were proof of Anderson's dedication to craftsmanship rather than evidence of a lack of it: You could see that he cared about beauty and structure and precision, but the vitality of his characters came first, elbowing all else out of the way if necessary.
But in his last two pictures, Anderson has shown a preoccupation with bigger-than-life flawed men and epic themes that can best be summed up by commodious white-elephant-art thesis statements like "Mankind! What price hubris?" Maybe that's why Anderson's latest, a faithfully woolly-brained adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's West Coast detective novel Inherent Vice, is such a huge relief.
Inherent Vice is, in some ways, indulgent in a way that a less-respected director would never be able to get away with. But there's some zip to it, and Anderson appears to be reconnecting with the pleasure of directing a large ensemble of actors: Inherent Vice is an open house for all sorts of weirdos and misfits and gloriously off-kilter savants.
This adaptation is in some ways an improvement on the book: Pynchon's prose is highly entertaining, but his frenetic pileup of imagery can also make you feel like you're in the company of a strung-out squirrel gathering nuts for the coming apocalypse. He also had fun with the casting: Joaquin Phoenix is Pynchon's half-canny, half-stoned-out-of-his-gourd private detective Doc Sportello, a scruffy romantic who's still in thrall to ex-girlfriend Shasta Fay Hepworth (Katherine Waterston), the kind of clean-cut hippie chick just about anybody would be in love with in 1970 Los Angeles. Shasta shows up out of nowhere, desperate for a favor; Doc obliges, setting off on a noodly trek that, after a brief and ill-advised stop-in at Chick Planet Massage, leads him into the custody of his nemesis, Josh Brolin's Bigfoot, a dim-witted cop and wannabe actor.
The joys of Inherent Vice lie chiefly in wondering who's going to show up next, and how: Benicio Del Toro shambles onto the scene as a sleepy-eyed, dissolute lawyer with the superbly Pynchonesque name Sauncho Smilax. Jena Malone is fragile and touching as a recovering dope addict who's hoping Doc can find her husband, confused idealist and beach-bum saxophonist Coy Harlingen — and since there is no one better suited to play a confused idealist and beach-bum saxophonist than Owen Wilson, Anderson, astutely, got him.
The plot takes a thousand and one hairpin turns, leaving a thousand and one hairpins behind. By the end of it, you're not quite sure what happened. But at least you've got Phoenix, in an assortment of rumpled denim shirts and stripy pants, sporting In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida sideburns. He's an enjoyable caricature of a caricature, a spacey, paranoid genius who peers out at the world, and stumbles through it, like a boho Mr. Magoo.
Inherent Vice isn't a towering masterpiece, and thank God for that. It's loose and free, like a sketchbook, though there's also something somber and wistful about it; it feels like less of a psychedelic scramble than the novel it's based on.