Far Out (That '70s Drift)

INHERENT VICE (A-minus) - Paul Thomas Anderson has clambered back into the 1970s, where he first hit it big, with "Boogie Nights," and the era fits him like a flower-print polyester shirt.

And Joaquin Phoenix, finally, is watchable, in a role meant for him. In this Thomas Pynchon adaptation, Phoenix is Doc Sportello, a long-haired, pot-smoking, Burgie-guzzling, sandals-wearing private eye living in a rundown beach house in hazy, lazy L.A. in 1970. He gets caught up in a clump of missing-person cases, lured into the world of a mysterious drug ring by his cool ex-girlfriend, Shasta Fay Hepworth (a wickedly fun Katherine Waterston, Sam's kid), and her new married older boyfriend, repentant real-estate mogul Mickey Wolfmann (a perfect cameo for Eric Roberts).

The rest of the plot would take too many more paragraphs to untangle, and even then I wouldn't get it all correct, so you can follow along here, if you want. There is a coked up dentist who meets an embarrassing end (a sly, restrained Martin Short), white supremacists, cult members, Owen Wilson as a saxophonist who's gone missing, and juicy side roles for the likes of Reese Witherspoon (a D.A. who sleeps with Doc), Benicio del Toro (as Sauncho Smilax, Esq.) and dependable Martin Donovan as a drug boss. (Musician Joanna Newsom narrates. The soundtrack mixes Jonny Greenwood originals with AM staples like "Never My Love" and Chuck Jackson's "Any Day Now.")

But the one who steals the movie is Josh Brolin. He plays iron-jawed Lt. Det. Christian "Bigfoot" Bjornsen, the civil-rights-stompin' evil twin of Joe Friday and buttoned-down nemesis to ol' hippie-dippie Doc. Brolin bigfoots every scene he stomps through, pulling up actors all around him. Bigfoot is fond of chocolate-covered bananas (maybe a little too fond), scores roles as an extra in episodes of "Adam 12," and serves as a one-man Greek chorus for Reagan's California, lamenting the slimy skid from the apex of the free-love movement.

L.A. has a Manson Family hangover less than a year after the Tate-LoBianca murders, when the "Laugh-In" free-love cuteness had started to curdle into a dead-eyed slog in the harsh morning light of a new decade primed for payback from The Man. This is a paean to Southern California's lost innocence absent the blowhard sentiments of the tone-deaf "There Will Be Blood." Anderson's triumph here is his ambitious, wide swipe at capturing that complicated mood with smart dialogue, brash lighting and camerawork, and a laconic mix of dark-but-slapsticky humor and quiet heartbreak.

For Doc, heartbreak comes in the form of Shasta Fay, whose soft beauty makes him wince and wallow. Waterston is a revelation here. She is just one of many mini-skirted stoner hippie-chicks flitting through Doc's (Anderson's?) idealized Disneyland of dames. (The dazzling Hong Chau positively sizzles as Jade, the proprietor of an unsubtle whorehouse.) Shasta Fay is the queen of sweater-dress '60s sirens.  Late in the film she returns to Doc, in the flat-out sexiest nude scene you may ever see. Waterston spins a looping, whispery monologue while subtly seducing our hero with her dark eyes and a velvet touch. It is bold acting and delirious filmmaking. I don't remember a word of the dialogue.

Anderson certainly owes a debt to Altman and Tarantino here (with a dash of Coen brothers). This is "The Long Goodbye" by way of "Jackie Brown" (and Bridget Fonda's couch-surfing surfer girl); maybe we need this story spun every 20 years or so. But the vibe is wholly Anderson's own. He tames Phoenix just enough while setting loose the fine cast to swirl in and out of Doc's world, creating a haze in which you don't mind losing track of the plot twists or donating two-and-a-half hours to this wild ride.

Anderson has come full circle since his sublime sophomore effort that celebrated the high point of hardcore. He's had an uphill climb since his last good film 12 years ago ("Punch-Drunk Love"), and hopefully he has recovered from his own hangover -- the self-indulgence he wallowed in with "The Master" in 2012. "Inherent Vice" lingers nicely the morning after.

BONUS TRACK
Chuck Jackson from 1965: