‘Do you smoke?” asks the publicist, outside the hotel room where Paul Thomas Anderson awaits. Given we’re about to meet for the writer-director’s adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s pot-soaked novel Inherent Vice, I’m half-expecting to open the door and find him toking on a joint.
But when I walk in to meet a bearded Anderson, dressed in a crumpled white shirt that looks as if it’s...
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