Created by Thomas Pynchon
When I first started reading Inherent Vice (2009), American master of letters Thomas Pynchon's foray into detective fiction, I'll admit I had high hopes. Not that I was familiar with his previous work, but I figured it still oughtta be pretty good. After all, he's supposed to be one of the great writers of our age, right?
And it wasn't like this was some big shot slumming and loudly announcing he was going to transcend the genre -- everything I'd heard about Pynchon suggested he was pretty far from the elitist snob some of his fans were. I mean, the guy's supposedly a recluse, but somehow he actually popped up on The Simpsons. Doing his own voice even. So he may be a whack job, but this was one cat whose pop culture cool cred was definitely in order.
So I started reading it. It was a big chunk of a book, close to 400 pages, but I'd read bigger. And at first, I failed to see what the fuss -- either way -- was about. His meandering, substance-addled detective, LARRY "DOC" SPORTELLO, reminded me a lot of James Crumley's gumshoes, with a definite touch of Elliot Gould as Philip Marlowe in Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye tossed in. So, nothing particularly original, but nothing particularly bad, either. I was enjoying it.
And so I kept on reading. Doc seemed pretty shaky as a detective, even for one working the hazy, dazy beaches of Los Angeles in the early seventies, and his constant barrage of wisecracks and quips was amusing, despite a few real groaners. And some of the bits are pure gold (I love the Sinatra bit with the cops -- it's pure Marx Brothers).
So far, so good, I figured. Pynchon's set the scene: Gordita Beach, a sort of 24/7 Surf City, full of babes, cheap dope, and perfect waves. He's got Shasta, the girl from Doc's past needing his help. She's worried about her super-rich boyfriend who's being blackmailed. And you've got Doc: an affable guide to it all. The good stuff will be happening soon, right?
Oh, sure, the plot sort of starts to warm up a little, but it never really comes to a boil. Hell, it rarely gets more than lukewarm before it's sidetracked. And then the sidetracks get sidetracked. And then come the subplots, the sideplots and the counterplots. And the dope and the babes and the wisecracks keep coming. And then the digressions kick in and start to pile up, and then the subplots are interupted by more sideplots and the digressions digress and then digress again, and we're bombared with mini-rants and snippets of trivia on lost continents, maritime law, J. Edgar Hoover's sex life, the pre-Internet Internet, surf music and the quality of homegrown dope. And the humour starts to wear pretty thin after a couple of hundred pages.
And after a while, I began to ask myself "Is this all there is?"
Sure, the spirit of the times and place are captured well, but there's no trace of any sort of genius, either inherent or apparent. All that dope humour gets real old real fast, and all those slow-mo witticisms and digressions and the absence of a coherent plot makes Crumley's mid-period books seem driving and tight. And then I realized that all those colourful supporting characters were all surprisingly flat; self-consciously quirky walk-ons, with few of them being particularly original. And instead of adding any real substance to any of his characters, he just brings in new ones.
But maybe it's just me. It has been suggested in some quarters that I'm simply not smart enough to understand Pynchon, or that I'm not evolved enough to see the "big picture." But I'm beginning to suspect there is no "big picture," after all -- just the wishful thinking of the faithful.
Or perhaps it's my familiarity with detective fiction that's the culprit. If, as has been suggested by people smarter than me that "Fiction should take you to places you don't normally go" one of my main problems with Inherent Vice is that I'm not being taken to any place I haven't already been.
The early seventies? Hippies versus the Man? Stoners, surfers, crooked cops? SoCal? A detective not always quite as focussed as perhaps he should be?
Been there, done that.
I'm not saying Pynchon has no right going near the detective novel or that he's condescending toward the genre as some have suggested, but I wonder how much of his reputation helped get this thing published?
Would a newbie have been able to sell such a fuzzy, self-indulgent book to a publisher? Or would it have ended up self-published? Maybe sold on Kindle for 99 cents?
Were this by an unknown author, even some of the most rabid embers of the Pynchon cult might have found it wanting. Pynchon may be a great writer, but as a detective fiction author, he's no Chandler or Hammett. Or even Richard Prather. Maybe Robert Leslie Bellem?
Some people whose opinions I truly respect seem to have liked it well enough.
But if you put enough English Lit majors and would-be intellectuals in a room, set them all to deconstruction mode and allow them to scratch their chins long enough, eventually you'll get all sorts of unique interpretations and blather about "non-falsifiable speculation," "the beauty of the forking paths and their effect on things" and "the basic splitting process of the alternate realities and histories as followed by the ordinary and extraordinary ray" as exemplified by the alternative tangents of Doc's investigation. And you'll hear all sorts of stuff about the genre being "transcended."
Yeah, right. Transcend this, toots.
The picture may not be that big after all. Or certainly smaller than we were lead to expect or hope for.
Maybe Pynchon just wanted to write a detective story.
Maybe he's even a fan of the genre.
Which is really cool. But he couldn't do it, and ended up with this Day Glo shaggy dog story, doing an adequate -- but not earth-shattering -- job of it.
There are worse crimes.
In December 2014, Paul Thomas Anderson's film adaptation of the novel was released, starring Joaquin Phoenix as Doc, I was interested in seeing what made the cut and what didn't. Two or so hours of a film versus almost 400 pages of text. While it didn't annoy me as much as the novel did, I still found it a rather disappointing slog, a film of its era turning another era into a cynical caricature.
But once again, what do I know? Other people seem to have liked it well enough. Even actor Ethan Hawke, who wasn't in the film, liked it, calling it a "mysterious, brilliant crazy movie. I can't imagine trying to adapt Pynchon for the screen, no less succeeding at it... the whole cast was gonzo and perfect."
-- Publishers Weekly
Pynchon narrates his own promo.
Scott Adlerberg offers an alternative view of Inherent Vice.
Respectfully submitted by Kevin Burton Smith.
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