I haven’t had time to give this a second watch or give the novel a read so I’ll do my best to summarize. We open on Shasta Fay Hepworth (an immaculate Katherine Waterston) distraught over the disappearance of her boyfriend/lover real-estate mogul Michael C. Wolfman.
Cut to Hope Harlington (Jena Malone, exquisite), an abandoned heroine-addled wife with a fake set of dentures. Her husband is in some deep trouble and it's up to Doc to recover him (Owen Wilson plays the role, very Owen Wilson-like). He goes out to investigate the case when – at a whorehouse – he’s hit over the head and framed for the murder of a bodyguard. When he gets out, he dives into the underbelly of a neo-Nazi, anti-Communist conspiracy and gets thrown some pretty whacky adventures, some pretty sexy flings and does a lot of drugs.
No doubt, I’ve left a lot out. But the plot feels almost like an afterthought, helping Anderson achieve his comedic goals, sometimes hindering him. I found myself befuddled, not by the plot, but by the way the plot unfolded. It really did not need to be as fuzzily presented as it was.
The best scene in the film is obvious. Doc and Shasta – after all the shit goes down, near the end – engage in one last brutal act of lovemaking, but as Shasta reminds Doc, it “doesn’t mean [they]’re back together.” It’s heartbreaking without taking itself too seriously, it’s rough while being tender. In PTA’s hands, women are sex-symbols and goddesses, professionals and fanatics, conspirators and shamans. Sex, rough and dirty and vicious, is as intoxicating as a hit of dope.
But rather than wholly be a visual ode or a comedic romp, it settles into the realm of dense mystery a little too much. There is a lot of dialogue, a lot which I was struggling to keep up with; it came off as needlessly complicated, frustratingly opaque and difficult to process. I found myself straining to hear to the point where I wanted to give up. That just isn’t fun. To say it didn’t work would be ludicrous, however; the voiceover of our astrologer/guide on this zany journey, Sortilege, delivers some poetic dialogue about planets (quotes escape me). Aunt Reet’s description of real-estate tycoon Wolfman as a Jew who wants to be a Nazi is wonderfully delivered. In short, many memorable lines, but many thin and dense conversations as well.
Those tender moments of drugged-up intimacy, those sensuous pans of troubled lovers looking for drugs in the rain, those loony car-rides where everyone’s fucked up, are where the movie fantastically succeeds. Josh Brolin's cop (he goes by Bigfoot) is a symbol of the hegemonic order and institutionalized manhood; every interaction between them suggests they're more alike then meets the eye. Other fun moments include: Doc’s interaction with a doped up Michael Z. Wolfman (Eric Roberts). Its off-kilter framing was charming, Robert's Wolfman an odd creature. Anderson – like Pynchon – places his characters in bizarre positions and milks their oddities for all its worth, turning Doc into a lovable clown with fiery sideburns. Owen Wilson as this shapeshifting vandal, escaping his troubles, joining the KKK, etc... gives us some good times. Wasn't crazy about him, didn't mind him.
A lot of the time, the dialogue and details are roadblocks to the Anderson-immersion experience. That layering effect he creates, the crescendo and virtuosity of his narratives – it’s precisely because the narrative doesn’t want to take itself too seriously that it feels so disparate. Its formula doesn’t work too well, most likely Anderson’s adherence to Pynchon. An essential humanity, sadly, felt missing at certain points in the film, a balance he often strikes between his aesthetic ambitions which felt lacking.
The humor worked, though. Martin Short rocks; those scenes with him made absolutely no sense and I enjoyed every minute of them. And - in that moment of the film - this is where I am completely sold on Anderson’s vision. At times, he absolutely nailed it. Dr. Ruby Blatnoyd is a hysteric, a man extracting calcium from people’s teeth to give him strength to pursue his own addictions. He’s an exemplar of the authority figures present throughout, men and women stuffy in their suits and ties, bludgeoning through to Doc’s world of smoke, fog and psychedelic adventures, always receding backwards to their comfy institutions by sunset.
I wished Anderson embraced that playful spirit more: Maya Rudolph, Michael Kenneth Williams, Benicio del Toro and others are given afterthought cameos, really adding nothing to the film’s enjoyment except to say, “Look, that’s Maya,” “Look, that’s Omar,” etc… While some might call that criticism unfair, it speaks to my overall problem with this flawed creature of a movie: its inability to fully embody its world. There was always something that pulled me back.
A hermaphrodite wall mural in a prostitute lounge is a comical decoration, Asian women eating each other out as Doc confusedly looks on is cute, but they register only as afterthoughts if there is no thorough-line. A lot of the film felt well-decorated, with cinematic allusions galore (I feel like if you made it here, I don’t need to bring up Robert Altman echoes, Big Sleep allusions, etc…) and historical references to boot (Richard Nixon AND Ronald Reagan… yuck!). But I remained somewhat aloof (… somewhat, I stress…)
I have to say, despite my piss poor attitude, the movie managed to leave me with a gigantic erection for not only Joaquin Phoenix but for Katherine Waterston as well who is the real the treasure of this film. And Serena Scott Thomas positively made me want to orgasm when she sauntered forward in her revealing mourning attire. How grotesquely delicious and arresting! No other director has that visual power, argh! She is a caricature, to be sure, as is intended, thinly drawn by both Pynchon and Anderson. Yet the thinness of its world and the density of its ideas won’t always make for that quintessential PTA experience, one of unadulterated fascination and pathos. It will leave you impressed at his abilities, hard in the pants but a tad empty in the heart. We’re given an eclectic menu of twisted and nostalgic delights, created by a master chef, some meals better than others. My appreciation for the director remains unabated. This is the most ambitious film of the year, at the level of Boyhood if not more so. Anderson loves Pynchon, cites him as one of his biggest influences. That passion for this type of story-telling, a form unique to the medium, is exactly what allows this movie to achieve great heights and mostly work. For me, though, it never works as a whole, does not entirely achieve what I knew it was capable of.
Grade: B+
Check out David's rave here.