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This weekend I saw P.T. Anderson’s INHERENT VICE, and as
usual immediately afterwards dialed some folks I know who saw it to give my two
cents and (kind of) hear theirs. One filmy friend was glad to hear I liked it;
remarking that it was just "so fun and easy to watch, shot so
beautifully..."
...and I was waiting for him to finish that thought. When he didn't, I offered, obviously: "and a scathing critique of capitalism." He assented, though it was clear that he didn’t give two red fucks about the Marxist reading.
Which is fine. Perhaps the real genius of the film is that it works so well scene-by-scene; even when you don't know exactly who characters are or why they are arguing or what exactly they are smoking, you absolutely know enough to stay engaged. But what you should really feel, and maybe some of you on a gut level did, is enraged. Because a textual reading of INHERENT VICE makes clear that capitalism is a rigged game; the players are corrupt and the conspiracy is real. But like capitalism itself (symbolized gorgeously here as a convertible Cadillac) the ride is bumpy: a noir nightmare fantastically drenched in golden California sunshine. INHERENT VICE is manic and opulent and compelling enough—just enough—for you not to ask the right questions. Because asking the right questions gets people killed.
That's why the real triumph of Joaquin Phoenix’s turn as hero is not finding a missing real estate mogul (literally sent to the looney bin when he decides to give away his money), or even in saving his distressed ex girlfriend (who reappears half way through the film oddly unscathed, the danger she felt in the opening scene somehow subsided; a red herring). His real triumph is in freeing Owen Wilson from the dharma of capitalism, the indentured servitude he felt as a triple agent, indebted “both” to the Federal government and to some shifty conspiracy of unseen gangsters (read, for those keeping score: they are of course the same). This may be wishful thinking on Pynchon’s behalf, as Owen Wilson gets free on the promise that his silence about “what he knows” stays absolute. But as we probably have figured out, the word of murderous gangsters is worth about as much as that of the FBI, the LAPD, and almost everyone else in this film: nuttin’.
...and I was waiting for him to finish that thought. When he didn't, I offered, obviously: "and a scathing critique of capitalism." He assented, though it was clear that he didn’t give two red fucks about the Marxist reading.
Which is fine. Perhaps the real genius of the film is that it works so well scene-by-scene; even when you don't know exactly who characters are or why they are arguing or what exactly they are smoking, you absolutely know enough to stay engaged. But what you should really feel, and maybe some of you on a gut level did, is enraged. Because a textual reading of INHERENT VICE makes clear that capitalism is a rigged game; the players are corrupt and the conspiracy is real. But like capitalism itself (symbolized gorgeously here as a convertible Cadillac) the ride is bumpy: a noir nightmare fantastically drenched in golden California sunshine. INHERENT VICE is manic and opulent and compelling enough—just enough—for you not to ask the right questions. Because asking the right questions gets people killed.
That's why the real triumph of Joaquin Phoenix’s turn as hero is not finding a missing real estate mogul (literally sent to the looney bin when he decides to give away his money), or even in saving his distressed ex girlfriend (who reappears half way through the film oddly unscathed, the danger she felt in the opening scene somehow subsided; a red herring). His real triumph is in freeing Owen Wilson from the dharma of capitalism, the indentured servitude he felt as a triple agent, indebted “both” to the Federal government and to some shifty conspiracy of unseen gangsters (read, for those keeping score: they are of course the same). This may be wishful thinking on Pynchon’s behalf, as Owen Wilson gets free on the promise that his silence about “what he knows” stays absolute. But as we probably have figured out, the word of murderous gangsters is worth about as much as that of the FBI, the LAPD, and almost everyone else in this film: nuttin’.
I have not read the novel, nor have I looked at reviews or
essays on the film’s discrepancies (though I will certainly do so now). My experience with Pynchon is also
admittedly limited—having read just THE CRYING OF LOT 49 and the wikipedia stub
for GRAVITY’S RAINBOW (it’s a good one). But just based on the conceit of what’s going on here,
those stories, and my own intuition I have to say this: Pynchon is probably the
biggest Capital G Genius to ever wield a pen. This is probably why academics love him so much, and also
why he can be so inaccessible and redoubtable to us lesser minds. In crafting a meandering
story of justified paranoia, a peregrination through inherent vice in all its
perverse incarnations, and in doing so in such a hilarious and color-saturated
way, Pynchon shows the true power of subversive art—the last bastion of hope
that may (probably not, but may) save us from the “conspiracy of dentists”
pulling the strings; may save us from ourselves.
Great film, and another homerun from PT Anderson, IMO.
