Cleansing the doors of cinematic perception since 2006, or earlater

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

The Gummo Marx Way: INHERENT VICE (2014)


With eyes glazed and a suspicious tan, Shasta (Katherine Waterston) began languidly gyrating atop our semi-supine and stoned hero (Joaquin Phoenix), her every slow deep rhythmic breath sending electric thin twisty second chakra waves through him, the couch, and out in rippling currents of 2nd chakra energy out from the screen into my own shattered nervous system. Buried in a seat next to a giant who never took off his leather coat, its barn ghost pungency somehow reassuring in this one moment, the way pain can become pleasure, annoyance can become unconditional acceptance, all in a few deep Shasta breaths. Each shadowy spiderweb sketch line filament of the Inherent's seething Gordita glow like a haunted hazy amnesia-curing brushstroke framing these lovers against the darkening afternoon of his Gordita Beach apartment; her Tropic of Capricorn-style twisted sexual power trip extended single take spoken word narrative slowly driving our hero into a ferocious rutting frenzy. 


"You're moaning again," my girl next to me whispered. Apparently this was a thing I did in such moments, unbeknownst to me.   


I've seen the glowing anguish when a psychedelically pinwheel rocketing 2nd chakra is ignited by some random hottie captured in a film only once: Terry Gilliam's FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS, when just being in an elevator with a laughing Cameron Diaz is enough to send Benicio del Toro's acidhead lawyer into a slow-building howl of pain that infects his mind and body for the rest of the trip and results in him even pulling a knife on her friend. Ya dig?


I remember I had my first trip, a $5 envelope of mushrooms scored and taken in the dorm before a late night double feature of YELLOW SUBMARINE and HEAD as a college freshman in 1986... Not knowing what to expect and excited and scared as hell, wondering if they were going to work, if I'd freak out and need a straitjacket, ruin my DNA, go legally insane and never recover or worse, be in some terrible panic hell. But then "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" started and when the girl plunged down on her carousel horse and the animation shifted into an Art Nouveau Matisse rotoscope, I plunged down with her; the floor of the Student Union opened up beneath me like a trap door, and I fell into a rainbow whirlpool; my idea of what was possible in the realm of my perception widened with every chorus. I never looked back. By HEAD I was rolling on the floor laughing hysterically, never ever happier. Before... or after. 


Benicio is a very attentive druggie lawyer (from top: FEAR, VICE)
Everything that came before and after, right up until last night, was never the same. Well, that Katherine Waterston scene in director Paul Thomas Anderson's crowded canvas VICE does deliver something PTA's sorely needed, a damned good femme fatale anima for all his damaged fathers and sons and there's even a holy ghost this time, via a moving and very weird scene with the great Eric Roberts, and a spirit operating a drug dealership via Ouija board.


And most of all, rather than Monterey or wherever the hell in the dullard post-war 40s-50s, this is 1970, California, via the literary tripper's choice, Thomas Pynchon.  I wanted to hang onto everything but most of it is a blur of names and faces and places. What resonated for me: a stray streak of sunshine on Doc's face during a drive to the beach; a sunrise reunion of a reformed junky family, the glow of the doorway and the horizon line behind matching in perfect transcendentally lucid pink; and that Waterston monologue --that's what I remember most. Just a stem and a cap to heighten the gorgeous golden magic hour moments, just a little Gordita Beach Turkey Ranch, that's all I got. Just a couple of acres. And the Marx Brothers, weren't dey dare? Groucho looking out from the ANIMAL proscenium CRACKERS arch, talking to Doc like a most gnarly cross-mediated platform surfer? Stuff was on TVs, troupe, back when everything was thrice the magic for it was nothing you could tape, screenshot, debunk. I remember that much. Always is that magic of the untapable TV-chronicity in a Pynchon; he'd be a great film critic if he wasn't so regular falutin'. Knows his pop culture, blends it and spikes it with post-modern glug glug glug, like a drowning submariner crying Lot 49 or Vat 69 or May 68. And if those strange figgers, mysterious figgers (Anaconda 148) don't add up, neither does life, it's just time lapping into seahorses, and for my sins, they gave me some. And neither does BIG LEBOWSKI. But Shasta adds up. Those legs sprawled naked and soaking in a storefront alcove, Phoenix's scroungy Jew Marxist professor from the 70s look, from back when professors bedded co-eds with sanctioned impunity, and Nazi bikers worked as Aquarius Age bodyguards, and nymphomanic maids screwed everything that wasn't nailed down in her madame's boudoir. 


Mystified mainstream critics have reasoned English major Generation X stoners like myself who remember the 70s from a wide-eyed childhood perspective, aren't seeing the 'real' thing. Our parents are disillusioned with that decade, just as we are with ours. I still get weirded out when I hear the Y generation venerate the 80s like it had some mystic power, when for my generation that power faded in the anguished morass of puberty and sex comedies and slasher movies. For my generation we feel connected to the mystical 'truth' of 70s-style Fleetwood Mac/Sonny and Cher California consciousness raising rather than a scam. We see the Age of Aquarius high water mark Hunter S. writes of, we remember an orgy we saw from afar but never experienced, letting the distance between that peace sign-sticker flanked scene and ourselves widen until the distance until our longing soured into bitter frigidity of the slasher movie, feeling our last shred of innocence die at the hands of David Mark Chapman, moaning in pain as the AIDS 80s slam the door shut right as we were approaching layable age. We, these mainstream critics have notes, will probably dig INHERENT VICE more than the bourgeois top critics on our papers, the ones who naturally grabbed the Paul Thomas Anderson film for themselves, alpha dogs grabbing for the chew toy just because they sense we want it. For these top dogs the decade's Aquarian tommyrot is just an embarrassing reminder of the month they tried to wife-swap with their bridge club. Paul Thomas Anderson, as far as they're concerned, hasn't made a decent movie since HARD EIGHT. The Gen X-ed of us love everything but HARD EIGHT, but THE MASTER had thrown us for a loop. Speaking for myself, I dutifully saw THE MASTER twice thinking it would cohere into genius a second time, but no, it was still just gorgeously photographed acting of no more lasting effect than being made to chop wood and build chairs at my buddy Al's grandparents' house, and liking it despite grousing before during and after. Seeing it again, I can smell the wood varnish. But it doesn't get me high anymore

But even I'm not sure I like INHERENT VICE. The only moment of THERE WILL BE BLOOD-level badass Babe and Bunyan truth in either of his last films is when Hoffman shouts "Pig Fuck" with a coiled unresolved adolescent fury any frustrated enlightened charlatan knows all too well. The more spiritual drivel you speak, the surlier your squirming toad cortex seethes below. But it was hard to buy Hoffman, for all his towering talent, as a cult leader--his fingers were too stubby. Neither he nor Phoenix is the sort, for example, you'd want a bedroom poster of, or to pray to on an altar, the way say we would James Dean or "Bob" Dobbs. Luckily, in VICE we have the sexual power of Sam Waterson's daughter. She seems legit --the real thing. Her vaguely cat-like face and ease with her body, that sweet sad wistful 'already gone'-ness no amount of acting workshopping can fake. Her Shasta isn't hung up on Mother Jones sermonizing or slumming Edie-ism, she's complex, and you can believe she doesn't show anyone her full self, and those who come close to getting the big picture are just as likely to lose her with their first inauthentic breath. It's terrifying, nerve-wracking, dating a free spirit like that. I always preferred to have them as friends though and date the Joanna Newsom character rather than the reverse. It's safer, warmer. Picking the girl who'll bring you lasagna rather than the one who'll promise to call then leave you hanging for weeks, or until another girl seems interested in you.


But this is INHERENT VICE: Ultimately, as the narrating Joanna Newsom notes, a nameless eternal evil has seeped like a vapor out from the ancient opium Pacific and co-opted the Age of Aquarius. But just where has the vapor condensed? It's a hard thing to trace in a 1970 California where hippie-dom is apparently so very near becoming the dominant culture that cops don't even bat an eye when you spark up a joint in their presence. They do beat you up for having long hair though. Ain't no gettin' around that. So just assume the passive stance of protecting head and fingers and groin and let the billy clubs fall where they may.

Milk
Thus the strange ancient frenemies relationship with Josh Brolin's flat topped cop Bigfoot. And Brolin's character invoking hazy memories of the 'Twinky Defense'-copping assassin Dan White in MILK (2008), connecting with Newsom's debut album (The MILK-eyed Mender). Coincidence? No such thing, man.

PTA's always been first and foremost a filmmaker for de facto brother or father relationships, and part of what BLOOD's power emerged from was the relative lack of a feminine element. Certainly, to my memory, no female character has a line of dialogue, aside from maybe Mrs. Sunday. Instead it was like a boy scout-cum-capitalist narrative nursing on the crude oil teat of the Paul Bunyan masculine John Henry Steel Driving consciousness to craft the dark father of capitalism. THE MASTER tried to do the same, but Amy Adams' as Hoffman's wife snaked forward with more power perhaps than even Hoffman (as his Clinton-esque hand job indicates). Now, in VICE, it's even narrated by a woman, and not a Spacek in BADLANDS blank slate but a savvy all-knowing Cali free spirit shamaness of no small wit, harp expertise and mystic acumen. Her albums are rich with great existential lines that would stagger Whitman and leave my iPod devastated--"and though our bodies recoil / from the grip of the soil / why the long face?"--that line reduces me to jelly every time. She and Waterson are not stealth buzzkills like Amy Adams, but wild untamed goddesses of strange alliance, orbiting men in motion like moons but belonging to no single planet or direction.


Then there's Joaquin as old Doc, the hippie detective. His office lurks deep in a medical suite, Anderson's ex-girlfriend Maya Rudolph as his doctor office receptionist; Doc in his gynecology chair a zone for smoking weed and staring at the window, huffing laughing gas when the myriad threads get too much for a single viewing and the dentist next door permits. Seeing double somehow allows the plot to come into focus for old Doc. Not me. I do know that it's Maya Rudolph's mother, Minnie Ripperton, singing the song that rises triumphantly from the soundtrack during Doc's mosey back to his office:

Ring all the bells /sing and tell 
the people everywhere that the flower has come
Light up the sky with your prayers of gladness 

and rejoice for the darkness is gone... 

Of course 1970 it was still possible to be idealistic enough to believe that darkness would one day be gone, or even had gone already. And it's Anderson's genius that he can recreate not only our Gen-X collective memory of that era, wherein he and I were children, but to make it a source of lasting mythic resonance. I know for me,  every strand of long blonde straight hair I see reflects the gossamer shimmer of Anita Louise's as Titania, queen of the fairies--my anima! If it's over a denim jacket, I'm agog.

Here's why: in 1975-8, my mom volunteered part time at a runaway shelter, which was basically a two story suburban house with a big porch. I remember one Xmas my dad's company bought them a coffee percolator. They listened to a Cheech and Chong album nonstop in the living room. All the people working there brought home a runaway for the holidays. My mom brought this girl named Toots, a gorgeous 16 year-old thing in a jean jacket and perfectly pressed long blonde hair. My mom gave her two packs of Marlboros as an Xmas present. It left me forever a-swoon for her type, and a smoker.

For Xmas, my rapture over her every movement paralyzing me so I still remember how hard it was to croak, "Hey Toots, want to do Doodle Art?" Those words etched into my brain with some small shame, the way my voice broke on the word "want." It was a 'Mythology' one - and ten years later it hung in my friend's drug den living room -- it's the circle of life.

But it was mainly that fate had deposited her there, on my orange shag rug, like an Xmas gift from the karmic wheel. In the safety of my family, she let it all hang out. And it's a family affair in H.O. double hockey sticks why double-you double Oh-Dee in camp PTA too: Sam Waterston's sexy daughter Katherine is the femme fatale (is Martin Donovan as the angry dad of a similar hippie chick the stand-in for Col. "I enjoyed that drink as much as you did" Rutledge, or old perma-slur Sam himself?); Elaine May's daughter Jeannie Berlin is Doc's savvy New Yorker Aunt Reet; James Brolin's son Josh is the cop; Eric Roberts is Julia's brother; Serena Scott Thomas is Kristen's sister; Jena Malone is an emancipated minor. Some of us remember Joaquin didn't come up the ladder to fame so much as be revealed standing there after brother River died (sister Summer's also in movies); Joanna Newsom is married to Andy Samberg who later that same night (that we saw VICE) showed up on ERIC ANDRE SHOW uncredited as Eric's double and their schtick together evoked the mirror scene 1933's DUCK SOUP, starring the Marx Brothers, and the street name Gummo Marx Way--Gummo famously the only Marx Brother never to appear on film--is on one of the files looked over by Doc at the Hall of Top Secret Records in VICE.


And what about GUMMO? It's by Harmony Korine, who also made SPRING BREAKERS, set also on a beach involving pretty people doing crimes while engaging in deep druggy binaural second chakra breathing. Of course that film was set in Florida, where Elmore Leonard set so much of his oeuvre, and that oeuvre a clear inspiration for Pynchon's source novel, along with Hunter S. Thompson (Doc and Duke sharing Benicio del Toro as an eccentric lawyer) and The Firesign Theater's How Can you be Two Places at Once when You're not anywhere at all. And back around again. Gummo Marx's film oeuvre, a study through which someone in some Allen film obtained some film doctorate... which brings me back to VICE yet again, and Martin Short's obscene corrupting uncut Cockaine dentist love... with an underage girl ("But it did happen.")


And back to that wow of a super sexy girlfriend free spirit played by Katherine Waterston (Sam's daughter) named Shasta Fay Hepworth. She basically owns the movie, no mean feat considering the heavy hitters in all directions. She's the mystery, and by the end we can understand why this stoner detective is so crazy about her. Like Lebowski is about that rug, or Gould's Marlowe about that vanished wrong guy friend, or Hackman for poor Melanie in Night Moves. Woke last night to the sound of thunder / how far off I sat and wondered / started gummin' a song from 1970... was it Minnie Ripperton's "Les Fleurs?"

Throw off your fears, let your heart beat freely 
at the sign that a new time is born

Yo, Minnie's daughter Maya Rudolph was that fleur? She was born two years after that song came out. So no. She wasn't even a gleam in her father's eye. But in Hindustani texts Maya means illusion and is eternally beguiling. No black coating of terrible weave could hide her value from PTA's eyes. Maya, under the Moorish wall, flowers in her hair like the Andalusian girls used. Maya, the woods we must hack our way clear of towards the clear-cut riverside of Nirvana, with no Excalibur machete or golden ankh to wave. And let's just take a look at this fabulous Yucatan Blue, price: only what the traffic will allow, delivered to me, Ralph Icebag, by a brown-shoed square, in the dead of night. Yeah, two Communiss on that cover - one Lennon, one brother of Gummo. Neither one of them into guns or sharp swords in the hands of young children / or frozen bananas sucked on / by Josh Brolin.


By 1970 we had already given up on the utopian ideal for a united and very hip America, one inflated to new heights by the California experiment. We thought universal Love, reefers and LSD would convert every last square to the One True Vibe. Instead: Altamont. Instead: 'free love' grubbers from the 'burbs. Instead: Manson decoding The White Album. Instead: cokehead troglodytes dropping by your intimate ego-dissolving LSD party at four AM, drinking all your bourbon and harassing the women, and you realizing you need your ego after all, because only your ego could get aggressive enough to kick them out, and all you can do instead is try, vainly, to formulate a coherent sentence without contradicting the love vibes you've vouchsafed. Instead: peaceful but filthy barefoot hippies clogging ever last public bathroom pore of the Haight and everyone being too cool to work or pay money, just presuming they'll be taken care of by the very social order they spit on. Instead: communes all slowly coming unglued as psychedelic unity and the blazing tribal consciousness that had emerged from the primitive inner rolodex for the first time in 1,000 years gave way to petty squabbles, malnourished infants of uncertain parentage, and tension over undone chores.

Instead: Squalor reducing even the most enlightened of near-Buddhacatholichrists back down to grouchy adolescent Earth, craving the comfort of mom's clean sheets and the now-weakened capitalist behemoth's car keys.

But we had brought all the trappings of the counterculture with us back to our home suburbs, and 1970 signaled the beginning of that smooth Laurel Canyon sound. The radio lit up with songs that managed to be sexy and vaguely dangerous to us kids without seeming to offend or challenge in any way. Parents and children in unison swooned from the emotional connection of "American Pie" or "Go Your Own Way" or "You Light Up My Life." We loved Fleetwood Mac. Whatever dreams Stevie Nicks wanted to sell, we'd buy them.Vietnam still sulked around but we'd given up on protesting. Instead there were bridge games, wife swapping, martinis, and above all kids unleashed, freed by Jaycees parenting lectures all hip on Buscaglia, Spock, and EST. I took advantage of that freedom. I stole every cent I could to buy Wacky Packages. We kids ran loose in packs, like dogs. We could still get spanked or slapped in public by people not our parents and no one would bat an eye. One whack for every year on our birthday in front of the whole class. At home, indoors, we towered like Godzilla over wood block towers we'd smash again and again before sloughing back into the depths. Wood paneling was our horizon; orange shag carpet our jungle canopy; couch cushions laid in a line on the floor our Bridge of Toome in County Antrim, Ireland. We'd march up and down it in time and pretend to be hung like Rodney McCorley. PTA was there, I was there. Were were you, Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Smith of Anytown, USA?


I don't know how many times I've seen BIG LEBOWSKI.  I don't even like it but it's endlessly re-watchable; some part is always just right for the moment I stumble onto it, and its always on some channel or other.. Sooner or later though, it grates on my nerves. But it's never the same film twice, until now, for Jackie Treehorn's shoe prints are all over the Pynchon PTA's lovingly detailed semi-sordidness. VICE even uses the same Les Baxter-Yma Sumac Tropicalia vibe that was Treehorn's leitmotif to conjure the same crossroads between the Jack Horner nurturing free love spirit and the Treehorn mobbed-up porno-decadence. But that's just one of a thousand twuggy-druggy twiggy-wiggy branches. You can dig it. I can dig it. Cyrus, the one and only.... But most of all, Paul Thomas Anderson has exhumed himself from beneath THE MASTER's weighty muck to re-dig it.


Who knows what would have been the result if Welles made a 70s stoner detective film. Would it have been INHERENT VICE, or is there just no character titanic enough within the story to hold his interest? In the end, that may be the thing. There's no core or center to VICE, no 'hurrah' moment like the pool party in BOOGIE or the "I'm the antichrist" climax of BLOOD. Phoenix is a great actor, but he's a scrawny shell of a thing, a short wiry little weirdo whose hipster disaffect on talk shows is alienating and less clever than he thinks. We don't gravitate to him like we do to Warren William or Bogart in similar roles, or even Dick Powell or big Jeff Bridges (or his father, Lloyd Bridges, for that matter). As for VICE's detective narrative, it's more coherent than some, but trying to explain the plot to my underwhelmed GF, all I could do is relate the anecdote about Hawks calling Raymond Chandler from the BIG SLEEP set to ask who actually killed Owen Taylor and Chandler not knowing the answer either. It doesn't matter. I've seen BIG SLEEP a dozen times at least, and I'm almost ready to blame Joe Brody, but Joe's saying he just sapped him for the incriminating picture from the back of the head of Krishna, So don't even draw the connections, baby. Just soak in Eric Roberts' brilliant monologue that rips the guts out of capitalism with an LSD trowel and reveals nothing but jewelry-coated vultures beneath the black enamel topsoil, the breathing aurae of cinematographer Robert Elswit, spiderweb lines of light and shadow haloing around every actor; the great clothes and cars like some old album come to life, Phoenix a little monkey wiggling free of his angel dust entrapment cuffs and every drug you have ever done shivering to your DNA surfaces. You're home, if you're like me, in this murky mythic din of countercurrent flashbacks. Every time you smoked angel dust it was because some dirtbag laced his joint and didn't tell you til it was too late. You were only an infant but you well remember the morning when every TV channel showed only the streaky continuous feed of astronauts bouncing around the moon in molasses air, like they were underwater, the audio just transmitted astronaut chatter and space interference, hour after hour, the usual old science fiction movies of the morning pre-empted, their futuristic fiction now outmoded into ancient fact.

"Ain't been high since '69"
In some strange way that was true love, that one stretch of continuous time --no commercials, no political dissent or grandstanding or fear-mongering, no sponsor, no agenda. Just community, finally. Harper Valley, we didn't know how much you meant to us until we thought we'd lost you. But a new time has come: your cosmic Maya has given birth to a new generation of Rippertons. We're free to love movies like those mythic moon moments again, free to see you and me in the same slow motion bouncing astronaut ground zero persona-dissolving mythic glow. A new go-to comfort food bible is born, if you care to blast for it. It's the Adventures of Sam Spade, Detective, brought to you by Wild Root Cream Oil Hair tonic. Yeah, it tastes electric... crimson... almost like fire. Almost. But were real 70s cars ever this collector clean? Or ever a humor in this Woman One? Take this lozenge from my tongue, this quill from out my heart, this pink and blue Tab (languette) of / Purple Barrel Plums / Untie from me the TruCoat, Ralph Spoilsport. Though our bodies may break and our souls separate, why the long face? We don't need no sealant, not anymore. No salt coheres along an ever-moving shoreline. Arise for the darkness has come / back! And so Black! Remember Les Fleurs, Walter! Ils brillent dans le noir. And most of all... Rejoice, sisters and brothers and siblings transgendered: there's finally a movie where being a stoner isn't the same thing as being an idiot. I never in a million addled years thought we'd overcome that dopey stigma, let alone Washington and Colorado. Let alone, baby.  Let alone.

Dirty up that car, Paul. This ain't no expo
Al Shean Presents: Vice Grip of the PYNCHON

RIFF INDEX:
1. Jackie Treehorn -(Big Lebowski) Pornographer played by Ben Gazzara (a riff on Eddie Mars in Arthur Gwyn Geiger + Eddie Mars in The Big Sleep) - "I'll Say She Is" - title of the last (unfilmed) Marx Bros. Broadway revue / Jack Horner - Pornographer played by Burt Reynolds (Boogie Nights)
3. "when the drugs began to hold..." - opening lines from Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing... Vegas 
4. "Turkey Ranch... that's all I got" - Hank Quinlan - Touch of Evil (1959) / "lapping into seahorses" - Patti Smith, "Horses" / "Steel Anaconda," etc. - Animal Crackers, Pynchon - Crying of Lot 49
5. "Spoilsport Motors," "Where were you, Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Smith" - Firesign Theater (How Can you be Two Places at Once...) / IV. "Communiss" - Confederacy of Dunces / 7. "Roddy McCorley" - Irish drinking traditional (via Clancy Brothers album we had as a child)
6. "like the Andalusion girls used..." -"crimson... almost life fire" -  James Joyce, Ulysses 
7. Trucoat - protective coating / sealant - scam extra Lundergaard tries to sell - Fargo (Coen Bro.s)
12. Wildroot Cream Oil Hair Tonic - "Again and again the choice for men who put good grooming first" Squaresville, in short. (Sponsor for old radio show "The Adventures of Sam Spade"  / Walter - (John Goodman in Big Lebowski; also Dick Miller in Bucket of Blood)
9. "Take this Longing..." - Leonard Cohen / "quill from out.... my heart" - Poe, The Raven 
42. Tab - common 70s slang for square from a sheet of blotter acid, also one of the earlier Diet colas: the latter of which I am now hopelessly addicted, and for which I blame past use of the former - ya dig?
ii. ".... Why the long face?" - lyrics from "Sawdust and Diamonds" by Joanna Newsom / "make you lasagna' - Clerks
iv. Purple Barrel... - play on a common form of mescaline from the 80s
xx. "If you care to blast for it" - Ben Hecht - Nothing Sacred (1937)
17. Harper Valley - Cockney-ish slang for Paul Thomas Anderson (PTA) - re: "Harper Valley PTA"
21. Al Shean - AKA Abraham Elieser Adolph Schönberg (Marx Brothers' uncle, credited for coming up with their names and schtick) 

7 comments:

  1. Your writing here was mind-altering.

    I LOVE Thomas Pynchon, and I am thrilled one of his books finally got made into a movie before he died (I assume he's not secretly dead, anyway). Sure, it's sort of a bummer that the one that Hollywood grabbed up was the least consequential thing he's ever written, but hey.

    I thought of the Big Lebowski similarities when I read the book, and like you, don't LIKE Lebowski but feel compelled to watch it every chance I get. It also has a hell of a lot in common with Pynchon's previous work "Vineland," which played up the same hippie vs. crew cutted cop schtick.

    So I'll dutifully go see this one and I'll be happy about it - at least until "Gravity's Rainbow" finally gets made (probably as a multi-film deal)...

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    1. thanks Katy, as always. I read Vineland but like Gravity's Rainbow before it, very little of it sunk in. I was in Northern California for awhile during the whole near Civil War of 1990, when drought conditions and amok military squads made the usual cash crop of the area nearly impossible to come by and no weed + no money made the old growth loggers and tree hugging hippies pull knives on each other in the middle of the street like the Old West! When I read Vineland I really related.

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  2. 1970 didn't really hit South Texas until about 1975, and I was 12 by then, so a lot of this movie spoke to me in very clear tones. I knew you would get it more than any other reviewer/columnist I read. Great write up. I loved that it was a real Detective story and not a Wrong Man in a Mystery story. I wondered what favor Doc had done the doctor who provided him office space and a receptionist, and gas, and wondered if that was where "Doc" came from. You wrote an article here about how Phillip Marlowe took the fall for the mistakes the Inside Cop friend of his made, creating their give and take, and I thought of that watching Bigfoot and Doc. And wow, I thought Bigfoot was going to be a cartoon character, but every one of his scenes made him richer and deeper, especially when his wife chewed out Doc for the cost of his psychiatric co-pays. I loved that it had, sort of, a happy ending. I loved the way it looked. I loved that it made me think not so much Hunter S Thompson as Uncle Duke from Doonesbury. I see GB Trudeau's influence in a lot of places lately; this movie, Mozart In The Jungle, lots of sprawling casts with a lot of threads, but the story being told through the pairing of just two or three characters at a time.

    I disagree with you about The Master, though. That movie really got under my skin. I found myself in both Hoffman and Phoenix's characters at different times, with very specific soldiers I served with taking the other character. I loved the ending of that movie, with Joaquin telling the girl in his bed that she was the bravest girl he knew. I took that as growth, and that is what I am always looking for. Unlike There Will Be Blood, which, I think I got it, but I didn't really care by the time it was over.

    Great write up, as per norm for you. I can't wait to see it again. What a cast! Jenna Malone and Belladonna in the same movie.

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    1. Thanks Johnny - glad to hear you sticking up for The Master. I'm trying to remember what girl you mean - the British pub chick? It's been awhile. It's been awhile for Doonesbury too, but I definitely came to it long before being 'turned on' in college. I guess it was a gateway! After reading about your thinking of guys you served with, I wonder if my ambivalence towards the Master comes from my own experiences as an AA sponsor, and sponsee! There were definitely fucked up lost causes like Quell who wanted me as a sponsor and I turned away, to regret it later... like I mentioned in my rambling piece on it a few years ago re: Gurdjieff.

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  3. Hi Erich, Yes, the British pub chick. There was something about him treating her as a person, after his ink blot psych eval, the sand mermaid, and the couple of hours that led up to that ending that I just really felt like he came out the other end a little better a person than when the movie began. When I got clean seven years ago, and I asked a guy to be my sponsor, he said yes and then stopped coming to meetings. I never called him, but that was a weird thing to have done. Maybe he relapsed from the pressure. Have you heard the Marc Maron WTF podcast interview with Paul Thomas Anderson? It's pretty great! PTA even talks about his father being Ghoulardi. They started rerunning Doonesbury dailies with new strips just on Sunday; I think he's busy with Alpha House. It's pretty funny reading the strips and remembering the punch lines from when I was ten years old. I found Doonesbury before I ever heard of Hunter S. Thompson. Doonesbury was definitely a gateway! Gateway to what, I don't know, the path has been circuitous and continues to stretch beyond.

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  4. I love your blog and your run on and on sentences. I am new to this and would be very grateful if you would be so kind to check me out. Thanks man. http://thefinestthingsclub.blogspot.com

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  5. Your writing on the film entertained me more than the film itself, which I found flat and way too straight for the time and milieu it was trying to portray. Going in to Inherent Vice I was hoping that PTA would capture some of the dread-funny, creepy-crawly tone of Downey, Sr and early Landis, but it was nowhere to be found. I liked the movie, it was fine, PTA is too much a master filmmaker to disappoint with the basics, but I wanted more. The only thing that surprised me was how sexy the movie was, but that's not what I wanted, even if looking at Belladonna's face for five minutes was my erotic mainstream cinematic highlight of the year. I thought PTA really has an opportunity to let loose with this movie, let his anarchist freak flag fly, but he severely reigned it in, and I don't know why, although I think Hoffman's death may have had something to do with it. As a child of seventies Los Angeles, who remembers that time as well as I remember yesterday afternoon, all I can tell you is that Post-Manson the city was an ever scarier place than it was before. There was something very sinister in the air and I don't think PTA captured that, in a formal sense or editorial sense. I also thought the music choices were pedestrian. Where was the Beefheart, Leon Russell, 13th Floor Elevators...ah, what's the point. I got the movie that was made, not the one I wanted. But it was the first PTA movie I didn't love, that I thought could have been made by someone else. PTA seemed absent from Inherent Vice. Hopefully he'll be back for the next one.

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