After a second viewing of Paul Thomas Anderson’s comic, mournful and gorgeous L.A. elegy “Inherent Vice” – the first-ever screen adaptation of a Thomas Pynchon novel – I no longer suspect it of being an “interesting failure.” This shaggy-dog saga of stoners, cops, neo-Nazis and tycoons, set amid the receding tide of 1960s euphoria in the Manson-traumatized and weed-baked City of Angels, uses its apparent directionlessness to disguise its true intentions.