Review: "Inherent Vice"

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson
Runtime: 145 minutes

Finding the right writer/director to adapt a distinctive novel is no easy task. When directors apply too much of their own vision, the original text gets lost in the shuffle (though The Shining is still an example of how such an approach can work). And if the director is too safe, the source material ends up being worshipped as gospel, often resulting in sluggish, line-by-line adaptations that fail to leap from the page to the screen. Perfect marriages of director and source material, those that complement each other rather than engage in a stylistic tug of war, are rare, but not impossible. The Coen brothers' No Country For Old Men set a high standard seven years ago, and in October David Fincher's Gone Girl joined its ranks. The latest adaptation to work so well, even if it's not quite great, is Paul Thomas Anderson's adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's Inherent Vice. 

It's understandable that it's taken so long for a Pynchon adaptation to reach cinemas. The reclusive author's works are characterized by dense, head-spinning prose wrapped around byzantine plots. Inherent Vice, as a novel, isn't as overwhelming as something like "Gravity's Rainbow," however, which makes it a smarter pick for a silver screen debut. In Anderson, Pynchon's novel has found an artist perfectly adapting to its pot-smoke flooded atmosphere and shaggy dog storytelling. 

Set right at the end of the 60s, Inherent Vice, like the novel, wastes no time in getting started. The instant drug-fueled detective Doc Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix) wakes up, he's confronted by his ex-girlfriend Shasta (Katherine Waterston), who's come to beg for help in the dead of night. Shasta's new boyfriend, land development millionaire Mickey Wolfmann (Eric Roberts) is in danger of being thrown in a psych ward so that his wife and her lover can claim his fortune. It's a classic noir opening, albeit dressed up in 60s threads and surrounded by LA surf culture and neon lights instead of venetian blinds.

But it's not long after this encounter that Doc finds himself in way over his head and the plot starts to snowball into a web of alliances, double crosses, and conspiracies. People show up out of the blue with cryptic warnings, and somehow everyone he meets, no matter how different, is somehow connected. Everyone, good, bad, or in between, has an agenda except for Doc, who wanders through the story like a confused extra rather than a true protagonist. If you come into Inherent Vice expecting answers to all of your questions, you're out of luck. Doc barely understands everything going on, and Anderson keeps the film rooted in his perspective. There are so many angles in Vice's story that it can be dizzying to keep them all together. 

Even so, Anderson's ability to capture the tone of Pynchon's overall story as well as his prose is commendable. Clocking in at two and a half hours, it's quite the long trip down the marijuana-scented rabbit hole, but the contact high Inherent Vice provides is often a pleasurable one. Though often quite funny, there's a pointed commentary on display about how those in power co-opt counterculture movements that gives the film just enough of a point to justify its narrative ramblings.

Though Phoenix is the story's only true main character (everyone else drifts in and out of the story at a moment's notice), it's the massive supporting cast that really owns Vice. Josh Brolin is an early standout as Lt. "Bigfoot" Bjornsen, a straight-laced cop who enjoys nothing more than making Doc's "hippie bullshit" life hell. His interactions with Doc bring out the film's off-kilter humor in both dialogue exchanges and weird visual gags. Waterston is an effectively alluring and conflicted surfer femme fatale, and makes her relationship with the considerably older Mr. Phoenix believable. Though underused, Benicio Del Toro is spot on as Doc's lawyer, while Owen Wilson and Jena Malone turn in memorable work as a missing musician and his wife, respectively. A somewhat unrecognizable Eric Roberts is also quite good as the missing Mickey Wolfmann, once the character finally surfaces.

Despite the characters who pop up across the entire film, the most memorable performance comes from one of the story's one-off characters. As a corrupt, drug-addled dentist, Martin Short delivers an arrestingly gonzo performance that marks Inherent Vice's comedic high point. To see his character leave the story so quickly is a bit of a disappointment. Other characters have plenty of spark to contrast with Doc's mellow attitude, but the dynamism Short brings to the film is often missed during other key scenes.

Perplexingly, the cast member who is least consistent is Phoenix. Though his look and mannerisms are spot on, the actor's delivery is wildly inconsistent. Even when his face is glazed over, there's a sharpness to Phoenix's eyes and features that never quite sinks into Doc's mindset. Similarly to his work in The Immigrant, Phoenix sometimes just feels too tightly wound and modern to fully immerse himself in Doc, who's the epitomization of a very specific subculture and time period. Phoenix certainly has his moments in the role, but just when he appears to have fully clicked with the character, some piece of dialogue or interaction comes along and rings false. 

Phoenix may be inconsistent, but at least the storytelling and tone are set on the right path. Anderson holds keeps the pieces of the story together, at times just barely, ensuring that enough of it makes sense while leaving plenty of connections skimmed over to the point where the film practically demands a second viewing. Anderson's longtime cinematographer Robert Elswit allows certain images to look grainy or rough, further drawing one into the story's representation late 60's Los Angeles. Composer Jonny Greenwood  contributes a moody, accessible score that nicely contrasts with the purposefully eerie themes written for Anderson's previous two films (There Will Be Blood & The Master). Other production details are excellent across the board, though special mention should be given to the hair and makeup team for putting so much personality in each character's coiffure.

Though Inherent Vice's longwinded structure can lead to sporadic lulls in pacing, it's still an engaging trip through the mind of one of the most important writers of the 20th and 21st centuries. Vice is not regarded as one of Pynchon's greatest works, and the film isn't one of Anderson's finest, but both work as engrossing pieces of entertainment that finely straddle the lines between high and low culture. It's proof that one can create a perfectly successful and satisfying adaptation of a novel without straining to find a hidden greatness that was probably never there in the first place. And even if it was, it would probably just go up in smoke anyway.

Grade: B

Review: "The Master"

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson
Runtime: 137 minutes

"We are not animals. Maaaaaan is not a part of the animal kingdom," intones Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman) over a tape to his followers in The Master. Yet Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), by his very existence, seems to have been planted on this earth to challenge Dodd's assertion. The two play off of each other in a manner that feels like an evolved version of the father-son bond in Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will be Blood. Only this time, the "son" figure isn't so impressionable, and is more like a wild animal in need of taming. Where Blood was overall more centered on one man's journey, Anderson's latest brings the father figure/son figure conflict to the forefront. The results may not be as immediately epic, but they are equally compelling, and quite obviously the work of a master.

Set amid the aftermath of WWII, The Master follows Phoenix's Freddie as he struggles to make his way in the world after returning from combat. He struggles to interact with others, often breaking out into fits of lust or violence, which doesn't exactly go over well at his various places of employment. He also has a fixation with crafting insanely strong alcoholic concoctions, which involve zesty ingredients like paint thinner. After one bout of drunkenness, Freddie stumbles aboard a ship bound for New York City. Its passengers are Dodd, his wife Peggy (Amy Adams), and the devoted followers of The Cause, Dodd's religion/philosophy/vague Scientology stand-in. Despite their drastically different natures, Dodd's civilized man and Quell's twitchy anti-socialite, they begin to bond. Dodd introduces Freddie to his family and his followers, and takes him under his wing in an attempt to help him overcome his demons. 

Rumored to be loosely based on the founding of Scientology, Anderson eschews controversy and allows Dodd and The Cause to act as their own entities. There's no mention of thetans or Lord Xenu, but The Cause does involve sessions that might have some resemblance to auditing processes that often come up in Scientology discussions. Dodd's devout followers are more than ready to be "processed," while Quell presents a special sort of challenge. And from this challenge comes The Master's greatest strength. From the Quell-Dodd dynamic Anderson manages to craft an understatedly epic drama about man's resistance and submission to various forms of authority. Quell may be under Dodd's seemingly all-encompassing wing, but even Dodd goes quietly when an incident results in his arrest. Freddie, meanwhile, has no master, and he fights the authorities off like a rabid dog. 

As embodied by Phoenix and Hoffman, these two figures command one's attention, whether they're sharing the screen or not. Hoffman, a longtime Anderson collaborator, delivers a mix of self-importance and self-righteousness that is coupled with an easy going, affable patriarch figure. Through Anderson's lens we're able to see Dodd as a manipulator, a caring father, and even a boorish drunk, and Hoffman makes the character's facets flow together seamlessly. Yet even though Hoffman may play the titular Master, it's Phoenix who owns the film. His face is perpetually contorted into a half sneer, half twitch, further enforcing the idea that he sticks out from normal society. Phoenix's posture is another marvel of physical acting. His gaunt, emaciated frame is constantly hunched over, and he roams through many scenes like some mentally unstable vulture.  As the man and the man-animal bond and clash, the acting fireworks are few and far between, but both men hit their marks when the time comes.

Though not nearly as prominent, Amy Adams is also excellent. Anderson uses the character sparingly, and the actress takes on the mix of charming house wife and iron maiden with aplomb. Other characters abound, but the core of the film is Phoenix and Hoffman's dynamic, and Anderson never strays from this. This strategy allows the film some room to incorporate its third leading man: Mr. Anderson himself. Continuing his Kubrick-influenced phase, the director has once again created a world of character study blown up against an inexplicably epic-feeling backdrop, all while retaining an eerie sense of distance. The filmmaking is unsentimental to the max, even as it charts the ups and downs of Quell and Dodd's relationship, as well as their relationship to society at large. Coupled with Anderson's screenplay, this can lead to the film meandering. But what compelling meandering it is. 

The opening stretches of The Master, most notably Quell and Dodd's first encounter, represent the driest portions. Yet once the narrative settles into the middle (and the film is 85-90% shapeless middle), Anderson cuts loose. The film runs for over two hours, yet it rarely, if ever, lags, despite the sense that the massive middle isn't building to an obvious conclusion. Anderson takes great pleasure in luxuriating in his character's lives, and watching Freddie struggle to cope with The Cause's subtly (perhaps randomly) evolving methods and teachings showcases the director's best Kubrickian influences. 

Further enhancing Anderson's grasp over the material is the first class work from his artistic and technical collaborators. Longtime Anderson cinematographer Robert Elswitt may be absent, but replacement Mihai Malaimare Jr. fills his shoes and crafts some remarkable imagery that adds to the low-key epic feel of the film. Anderson's returning collaborators don't disappoint either. Costume designer Mark Bridges (fresh off of an Oscar win for The Artist) convincingly recreates the period along with the spare but excellent production design of Jack Fisk. And returning composer Jonny Greenwood creates another moody and menacing score, announcing its presence without manipulating our emotions. Greenwood has, once again, composed music that makes itself known, yet compliments the atmosphere without drawing attention away from the characters. 

There are many who may be turned off by The Master. Its initial dryness may, for some, extend beyond the first few reels. And, as was often the case with Kubrick, the perceived distance from the characters, despite their centrality, may turn some off of the performances. Those expecting another There Will be Blood could also potentially find themselves let down, or merely taken aback by the film's less forward-charging narrative. And then there are those who will, for whatever odd difference, be able to bask in the film's clinical pleasures just as Freddie soaks up the sun as he lies on the beach, his head rested up against a woman made out of sand. The animal in his natural habitat, free from any master.

Grade: A