Eric Roberts

Like the Thomas Pynchon novel it's based on, this film remains infuriatingly evasive as its central mystery deepens. Also like Pynchon, writer-director Paul Thomas Anderson is more interested in characters than plot, expertly orchestrating a lively cast in a series of raucous scenes. That these moments never quite add up to a coherent bigger story may feel unsatisfying, but the groovy 1970s vibe is infectious, and there's a lot of fun to be had in watching these actors play around with the rambling dialogue and nutty interaction.

It's set in 1970 Los Angeles, where private investigator Doc (Joaquin Phoenix) is a stoner who'd rather not work at all. Then he agrees to help his ex-girlfriend Shasta (Katherine Waterston) find her missing property developer boyfriend Mickey (Eric Roberts). But this immediately puts him on a collision course with his long-time nemesis, Detective Bjornsen (James Brolin), a frozen-banana loving tough-guy cop known as Bigfoot. And the deeper Doc gets into the case, the more confusing it gets. Not only is the presumed-dead Coy (Owen Wilson) very much alive, but it's unclear whether a key clue about Golden Fang refers to a boat or a secret dental society. And suspiciously, Doc's DA friend Penny (Reese Witherspoon) always seems to be one step ahead of him on the case.

Anderson opens the film with a blinding flood of information and then simply never allows us to catch up, so like Doc we can't quite get a grip on what's actually going on. This effectively makes us feel as stoned as he is, bewildered by the way even the simplest revelations seem to contradict each other. But even as everything gets increasingly confusing, Anderson writes and directs scenes with a vivid intensity that's both hilariously entertaining and darkly involving. Each sequence carries a powerful punch, giving the superb cast plenty of quirky details to work with.

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An unusual structure gives this biopic a surprising kick as it explores both sides of the porn industry: the glamour and the sleaze. Oscar-winning documentary filmmakers Epstein and Friedman (The Times of Harvey Milk) keep things so balanced that it sometimes feels a bit clinical, never letting us feel the intense emotions that gurgle throughout the story. But it's a strikingly well-made film with a terrific all-star cast.

It also cleverly looks like it was actually made in the early 1970s, the period in which it's set. This is when 21-year-old Linda Boreman (Seyfried) left the home of her harshly religious parents (Stone and Patrick) to live with her free-spirited boyfriend Chuck (Sarsgaard). By 1972 she was the most famous porn-star on earth, as the lead actress in the crossover adult movie Deep Throat. But the glamorous lifestyle covered a much darker reality: that the abusive Chuck forced her to make the film while selling her body to anyone willing to pay. And it took her several years to break free, tell her story and stand up against the industry that used her.

Cleverly, the film carefully lays out the male-dominated culture in the industry along with the jet-set high life before rewinding and showing us the gruesome underbelly. It's a bold gimmick that undermines the emotional momentum but forces us to examine our own perceptions. And it helps that the filmmakers recreate the period without much fussiness. Yes, there's a lot of big hair and groovy music, but it's never played for laughs. Everything centres on the characters, who are sharply well-played. Seyfried brings a terrific fragility to Linda, while Sarsgaard reveals Chuck's darkness in a complex way. The unrecognisable Stone is also excellent, while Patrick has the film's most moving moment.

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Amusing enough, and a quick read. And Fast Sofa, the movie, keeps the guts of this road trip intact -- enough to realize that our pal Rick is on a real road to nowhere. Jake Busey makes for a creepy and considerably miscast hero, though Jennifer Tilly's wanton Ginger is enough fun for the both of them. Stealing the show, however, is Crispin Glover, as a shut-in sophisticate named Julian who tags along on the latter half of Rick's abortive journey. His outfit alone is reason enough to rent the tape.

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If John Waters' last few gentler and (slightly) more commercial movies ("Pecker," "Serial Mom," "Cry-Baby") had his fans thinking the once-warped director had lost his edge, that perhaps he was inching toward mainstream repeatability, they need not fear. It was all a ruse.

It seems Waters was only lulling the cinematic establishment into a false sense of security so he could turn around and bite them in the ass with "Cecil B. Demented," a hilarious -- and very much old-school John Waters -- anti-blockbuster romp that chews up and spits out the kind of pandering Hollywood conventions that to toothless, cookie-cutter box office hits.

Cecil B. Demented (Stephen Dorff), you see, is an independent filmmaker of the purest order. His goal: cinematic revolution by any means necessary. If that includes kidnapping one Honey Whitlock (Melanie Griffith), Hollywood's biggest spoiled bitch/aging bimbo star, and forcing her at gun point to play a lead in his guerilla movie about celluloid terrorists (much like himself), so be it.

Continue reading: Cecil B Demented Review