Licorice Pizza Review: Paul Thomas Anderson’s San Fernando Valley Romance

A love story that feels like a dusty record spinning in the sun

Licorice Pizza doesn’t feel like a movie you watch. It feels like something you stumble into-like walking into a record store in 1973 and finding a mixtape no one remembers making, but somehow knows by heart. Paul Thomas Anderson’s ninth film is less a plot-driven drama and more a hazy, sun-drenched daydream set in the San Fernando Valley, where teenagers run businesses, adults act like kids, and the air smells like vinyl, gasoline, and possibility.

At its center are two outsiders: Gary Valentine, a 15-year-old entrepreneur with the confidence of a 40-year-old used-car salesman, and Alana Kane, a 25-year-old photographer’s assistant who’s still figuring out who she is. Played by Cooper Hoffman (in his first and only film role so far) and Alana Haim (a musician stepping onto the big screen for the first time), their chemistry isn’t acted-it’s lived. You can feel the sweat on their foreheads, the awkward pauses, the way Gary talks over Alana like he’s already won, even when he hasn’t said anything smart.

Anderson doesn’t spoon-feed you a story. There’s no three-act structure here. Instead, you get a series of scenes stitched together like a mixtape: Gary tries to sell waterbeds. Alana gets pulled into his scheme to open a pinball parlor. They both end up in the middle of a celebrity photo shoot with a washed-up actor played by Sean Penn, who’s clearly modeled after William Holden. There’s a scene where they drive across the Valley in a convertible, talking about nothing and everything, the golden hour light pouring through the windows. It’s not cinematic-it’s real.

The Valley isn’t just a setting. It’s the main character.

Anderson grew up here. He still lives here. And Licorice Pizza isn’t just set in the San Fernando Valley-it’s made from its bones. The locations aren’t sets. They’re real places: the old Ventura Boulevard pinball arcade, the record stores that closed in the ’80s, the strip malls where kids hung out after school. The costumes? Real 1973 fashion-flared jeans, polyester shirts, wide collars, platform shoes. The cars? Actual models from the year, not replicas. Even the way people talk-slower, looser, less rushed-feels like a time capsule.

Jonny Greenwood’s score doesn’t bang you over the head. It hums underneath like a refrigerator you don’t notice until it stops. There’s no big orchestral swell when something emotional happens. Instead, you get a quiet piano line, a muted guitar, a bassline that creeps in like a thought you can’t shake. It’s the sound of growing up in a place that feels both endless and tiny.

And then there’s the light. Anderson shot the whole thing on 35mm film, and it shows. Every frame glows-like the sun is always about to set, and you don’t want it to. The colors aren’t bright. They’re warm. Golden. Faded. Like a photo you found in your mom’s attic, slightly blurry around the edges.

A relationship that divides audiences

Let’s talk about the age gap. Gary is 15. Alana is 25. That’s a 10-year difference. And yes, it’s uncomfortable. It’s meant to be.

Anderson doesn’t romanticize it. He doesn’t pretend it’s okay. He shows it as it was: messy, confusing, a little dangerous, and oddly normal for the time. In 1973, people didn’t talk about power dynamics the way we do now. Gary isn’t a predator. He’s just a kid who thinks he’s in control. Alana isn’t a victim. She’s a woman who’s tired of being told what to do, even if she doesn’t know what she wants instead.

Some viewers call it problematic. Others say it’s honest. Pittsburgh Magazine called it “one great, big problem” that keeps the film from being great. But maybe that’s the point. Licorice Pizza isn’t trying to be perfect. It’s trying to be true.

The film doesn’t give you a clear answer. It just shows you two people trying to figure out how to be close without knowing how to be together. And that’s more honest than most love stories.

Why it’s not Anderson’s best-but maybe his most human

If you came to Licorice Pizza expecting There Will Be Blood or Magnolia, you’ll be disappointed. There’s no towering performance by Daniel Day-Lewis. No sprawling, chaotic ensemble. No religious symbolism or screaming fits. This isn’t a movie about failure or redemption. It’s about small moments that add up to something you can’t name.

Glide Magazine gave it a C+, calling it Anderson’s weakest since Inherent Vice. The Ringer called it a “triumph.” Roger Ebert said it’s “one of the few films that get the ’70s right-not just the look, but the mixed feelings of boredom, oddball adventures and confusion.”

Those aren’t contradictions. They’re different ways of seeing the same thing. Licorice Pizza is messy. It’s long (133 minutes). It doesn’t always make sense. But it’s alive. You can feel the heat, the dust, the nervous energy of two people trying to figure out what comes next.

Anderson has spent his career making films about people trapped by their pasts. This time, he made one about people trying to escape them. And for the first time, he lets his characters breathe.

Who this movie is for

If you grew up in a place that felt too small but also too big-if you remember being 15 and thinking you knew everything, or being 25 and realizing you know nothing-this movie will stick with you.

If you’ve ever been in a relationship that didn’t fit the mold, that didn’t make sense to anyone else, but felt right to you-it’ll hit differently.

If you’ve ever driven through a neighborhood you used to live in and wondered what happened to the people you used to be-you’ll find them here.

It’s not for everyone. It’s not even for most. But for the ones it speaks to, it’s unforgettable.

Behind the scenes: The making of a personal film

Anderson didn’t cast stars. He cast people who lived in the world he was trying to recreate. Cooper Hoffman had never acted before. His father, Philip Seymour Hoffman, died in 2014. Watching Cooper on screen, you can feel the weight of that legacy-not as pressure, but as presence. He doesn’t imitate his dad. He just exists, like a kid who’s always been a little too loud for his own good.

Alana Haim came from a band. She’d never been in front of a camera. But she didn’t need acting lessons. She just needed to be herself. And that’s what makes her performance so magnetic. She’s not playing Alana Kane. She’s letting you see Alana Haim, filtered through a character who’s trying to figure out what she wants from life.

The production design team spent months tracking down real 1973 clothing, cars, and props. Even the record store in the title? It was real. It closed in 1985. Roger Ebert used to go there. Anderson remembers it. And now, so do we.

What happened after the credits rolled

Licorice Pizza was released in November 2021, during the tail end of the pandemic. It made $36 million worldwide against a $30 million budget. Not a blockbuster. But it got three Oscar nominations: Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Original Screenplay. It didn’t win any.

But awards don’t matter here. What matters is that the film still lingers. People still talk about it. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s real. It doesn’t try to fix the past. It just lets it be.

Anderson didn’t make a masterpiece. He made a memory.

Final thoughts: A film that won’t age like wine-it’ll age like a favorite song

Years from now, someone will find this movie on a streaming service. They’ll press play on a quiet Tuesday night. They’ll watch Gary and Alana drive through the Valley, arguing about nothing, laughing about everything. And they’ll think: I’ve been here before.

That’s the magic of Licorice Pizza. It doesn’t tell you what to feel. It just lets you feel it.