Inherent Vice

Thomas Pynchon's new novel is a detective thriller set in LA in the late Sixties. Gordita Beach (Manhattan Beach?) to be precise, a fictional place the reclusive Mr. Pynchon knows well. The style is Chandleresque with a dash of Elmore Leonard. 'Inherent Vice' gives Pynchon a chance to indulge in some Sixties nostalgia. But not the way he did in the long drawn out, some might say dull, ‘Against The Day.’ This time he has a lot of fun recreating the scenes and characters of the post-hippie period and he obviously has a lingering affection for surf, drugs, and rock and roll. Everybody is stoned or tripping but it’s a surprisingly disciplined novel given the subject matter.

The lonely, proud private eye is a favourite character in American fiction. Doc is not a typical example. He’s a pothead with an Afro, less hard-boiled than Philip Marlowe and funny in a Cheech and Chong sort of way. Of course he’s cynical with it. He has plenty of spare time to sit in his office staring at a velvet painting of an idyllic California beach scene and trying to come to terms with the corruption of the counterculture, which is what the book is ultimately about.

One day an ex-girlfriend, Shasta, shows up looking for help. She’s got herself involved with somebody called Wolfmann, an interesting mix of white Aryan Jewish Nazi tycoon real estate developer. There are many cartoonish characters with silly names. There are murders. There’s money involved too which puts Doc at odds with himself because he usually works for free. Lots of things happen but nothing too cryptic. References to “Hawaii Five-O”, Tiny Tim and the Archies may be a little obtuse for younger readers but generally speaking Pynchon sticks to the point. No metaphysical meandering. He still goes off on little tangents but stops well short of gonzo. And there’s a plot for those who like their prose linear. It’s complicated, even a bit messy, but it keeps you reading.

I have a feeling hardcore Pynchon fans expecting another ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’ might be disappointed. Under 400 pages for a start. This is a much more orthodox novel not likely to become a cult classic. I enjoyed it even if my own Sixties memories aren’t quite the same as Pynchon’s. Everybody who lived through it remembers it differently. Perhaps Pynchon has even exaggerated and embellished a few of his own more lurid memories. That’s fine. It makes for an entertaining read.