The Tragedy of Licorice Pizza - all style, no substance

A film that could've been a masterpiece, but smirked its way out of depth

It could have been a devastating, nuanced character study—a spiritual cousin to The Piano Teacher, or Taxi or something even something Cassavetes might’ve done—something messy, aching, brutally human. But because Paul Thomas Anderson framed it like a hazy romance, people didn’t witness Alana’s unraveling. They either:

Dismissed her as immature, pathetic, or predatory,

Or romanticized her breakdown as whimsical and “quirky.”

Both readings are cop-outs.

The real film was hiding inside her….

Alana Kane is a 28-year-old woman on the verge of psychological collapse, trapped between:

the invisibility of adult womanhood in a youth-obsessed culture,

the illusion of agency in a world that only values her proximity to power or beauty,

and the spiritual vertigo of being loved by someone who sees her without actually understanding her.

If the movie had dared to sit still—really sit still—with her disorientation, her bitterness, her flailing attempts at control and connection…
it could’ve been devastating in the best way.

A portrait of a woman quietly going insane under the pastel shimmer of the '70s.

But instead, the framing says:
“Isn’t this cute? Isn’t it kind of dreamy?”

No.
It’s a slow-burning tragedy—and we missed it.

and just take the scene where she's in the restaurant with that actor after her weird audition as "rainbow" - the whole scene is just dark and sad. he's talking AT her, she's just laughing and asking questions like IS THIS REAL???

She’s caught in a space where she’s not even sure what’s real anymore — laughing nervously, almost like she’s testing reality, but the energy is so off. It’s like watching someone start to drift away from themselves.

And then the motorcycle scene right after? That’s the literal fall — not just physically but psychologically. Riding with a stranger, FALLING, and then being rescued by a 15-year-old? It screams disassociation, a blurring of boundaries and a loss of agency.

It’s a turning point where the film stops being a sweet coming-of-age and starts showing cracks in the narrative’s reliability. But the movie doesn’t lean into it or explore it meaningfully — instead, it kind of skirts around the darkness and tries to keep the tone light, which only makes it more disturbing.

It just glides over the edge and asks the audience to keep smiling, keep thinking it’s a quirky romance.

That scene alone could be the centerpiece of a serious film about confusion, control, and the loss of innocence. Instead, it’s a missed opportunity — a shattered mirror that the movie refuses to really hold.

it wants to be a cult classic so bad, but in order to be a cult classic, it kind of has to be BADASS. it has to have GRIT. and it doesnt. and it so easily could have. it could have been this movie about this girl that just loses her grip on reality.

I get that feeling with Magnolia too. It tries to be profound but ends up feeling like a soap opera with surreal gimmicks (like raining frogs) that distract rather than deepen.

PTA is the Pied Piper of aestheticized dysfunction—leading the lost with a beautiful tune, promising depth, but all it does is keep people orbiting unreality. It feels meaningful, but it doesn’t change you. It doesn’t call you forward. It doesn’t pierce. It just loops.

PTA is faking it and you can tell by that fucking SMIRK that he always wears.

If the story was just two people meandering through the 70s, discovering each other and themselves, that could’ve been beautiful on its own. No need to inject that weird power imbalance that makes it impossible to fully enjoy or trust the narrative.

If PTA wanted to be bold, he could’ve been honest and upfront about it — maybe owned the messiness instead of pretending it’s charming or cute. But instead, it’s just slipped in, like a mickey.

This kind of storytelling feels like a betrayal, especially when you really want to get lost in a romantic, tender story but can’t because something’s off.

It’s not a deep movie. I wanted it to be. I gave it every chance. But in the end, it’s all style, no substance. And that’s the real waste — not that it failed, but that it never even tried to tell the truth.

Licorice Pizza almost got me. I almost bought it, literally and emotionally. It had the aesthetic. The warmth. That golden, grainy haze of 1970s California. The soundtrack, the looseness, the chemistry. It felt like it was building toward something beautiful. But deep down, I couldn’t reconcile the dissonance. The elephant in the room kept kicking me in the ribs.

And no one in the film seemed to notice.

There’s a moment where Alana slips and says, "I'm 28." Not 25. Not even 22, which already would've been uncomfortable. Twenty-eight. Opposite a 15-year-old boy. And while some viewers flinch, the movie itself doesn’t. It just keeps rolling, winking, nudging, playing it off like it's all part of the charm.

This is not a harmless oversight. It's the thesis. It's what the whole movie is doing: asking you to suspend not just disbelief, but your discernment. It hands you dysfunction and asks you to call it quirky. It gives you a slow, aching dissociation and asks you to call it love.

This is not a love story. This is a psychological unraveling. But PTA doesn’t tell that story. He blurs it in warm tones and wistful music. He perfumes the crazy. And audiences, yearning for romance and nostalgia, take the bait.

Pretending to Be Deep Isn’t the Same as Being Deep

Critics and fans twist themselves into knots trying to justify the film's strangeness as intentional, as edgy. But the truth is, Licorice Pizza is a shallow film dressed in vintage style and faux provocation. It gestures toward depth but never actually dives in. It's too self-satisfied. Too proud of its own aloofness.

Compare that to Jack Goes Boating, a quiet film that tells a real love story — not about falling in love, but choosing love. About damaged people who try. That movie treats its characters with care. With compassion. And it trusts its audience to handle something real.

PTA doesn’t trust us. He dazzles us instead.

The Cultural Mirror

Licorice Pizza works because it mirrors the way our culture treats dysfunction as flavor. We frame trauma as content. We trend mental unwellness. We put filters on disassociation and call it cute. This is not just a movie problem. It’s a generational one. We’re all watching each other unravel and calling it a vibe.

But facing your darkness? That looks crazy. That’s the lonely path. That’s the path this movie refused to take.

What Could've Been

Licorice Pizza could have been PTA's Taxi Driver — a grimy, unflinching look at a culture cracking apart. It could have been a character study like The Piano Teacher, about a woman losing her grip in slow, subtle ways. But instead, it smirked its way into forgettability. It refused to grow up.

The saddest part? It affected people. It resonated. People wanted it to mean something. So they filled in the gaps themselves. Because there was almost a great movie there.

But in the end, it’s all style, no substance. And that’s the real waste.

Want to know how to do it right? Watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s (another film with problematic Asian stereotypes - but in that one Mr. Yunioshi has a soul, a motivation, a room with a view. He’s comic relief, but we understand him. You can be offended by him if you want but if he offends you more than PTA’s silent unsmiling Japanese wives who are literally interchangeable - than you really are asleep). At least Breakfast gives you honesty. It doesn't gaslight you. It lets you enjoy the dream, but it respects your intelligence. You can float on the surface, or dive deep. Either way, it won’t betray you.

Hollywood, take note. You don't have to be deep. But if you're going to hint at it — mean it.