Inherent Vice is Thomas Pynchon’s most readable novel yet, a laid-back, playful jab at hard-boiled detective fiction and ’70s Richard Nixon-based paranoia. It’s a compulsive read, full of dirty jokes and wordplay, showing off his unique verbal dexterity and biting humour. It’s also Pynchon at his most exasperating, another blend of acid-soaked Americana akin to his little-loved ’90s hippies-in-hiding novel, Vineland. The wacky names and staccato delivery are relentless, and Pynchon’s performance here is impressive — the prose never lags, despite the lackadaisical nature of his tale.

The plot, such as it is, follows hippie burnout and private eye “Doc” Sportello, hot on the trail of a missing person (or persons) lost somewhere in the Los Angeles wilderness. His travels take him from L.A. to Las Vegas, where he encounters a seedy mix of aging rock queens, neo-Nazis and other degenerates on his way to finding some sort of truth.

So why does Inherent Vice feel like such a disappointing book? Despite the kinetic feel of his work, Pynchon often requires a lot of patience (Gravity’s Rainbow is a prime example of the book everybody buys but nobody reads). His books often feel as if they’ve been continuously written and pared down, to the point that one passage packs a dozen pages. This isn’t an issue with Inherent Vice, with its rapid-fire, noir-bent style lending an appealing readability Pynchon hasn’t had in ages.

No, what kills Inherent Vice is an incongruous mix of hard-boiled detective fiction and ’70s counterculture clichés that often reads more like the well-choreographed idiocy of Tom Robbins than, well, Pynchon himself. Though his lovingly satirical intentions are obvious, it’s the work of a curmudgeonly dinosaur. Inherent Vice is nearly 400 pages of Pynchon running down whatever rabbit holes catch his attention and finding helpless targets to skewer. Though some of his satirically poisonous jabs hit the target, others (like a character doing lines of coke upon an issue of Guns and Ammo) are too obvious and geriatric. Add to that countless pages of hyperactive prose aping Hunter S. Thompson, constantly skeezed up with squirmy sexual digressions.

Despite the knocks, Pynchon is still a master, and anything he writes deserves attention. That said, the devoted will find a lot to love here. Everyone else, beware.