Licorice Pizza (2021)

Licorice Pizza is special because it captures the messy, exhilarating feeling of being young without packaging it into a neat moral or a tidy plot—just a sun-dazed rush of moments that somehow add up to something tender and true. Paul Thomas Anderson turns the 1973 San Fernando Valley into a living, breathing playground of ambition, awkward flirtation, and impulsive schemes, and the film glides along with the confidence of a great hangout record. Alana Haim and Cooper Hoffman are the kind of lightning-in-a-bottle leads you don’t watch so much as spend time with: funny, prickly, vulnerable, and constantly surprising, with dialogue that sounds overheard rather than written. It’s romantic in the way real life can be romantic—offbeat, unresolved, and charged with possibility—so if you need a conventional love story or a fast-moving narrative, it may not be your tempo, but if you want charm with bite and authenticity that sneaks up on you, it’s a genuine delight.

Licorice Pizza is clearly aiming for a hazy, hangout-style snapshot of 1973 youth—more vibes, moments, and messy feelings than a clean, point-A-to-point-B romance. If you need a strong plot, clear character growth, or a relationship you can comfortably root for without side-eyeing the age gap, this will likely feel aimless and occasionally off-putting. The pacing drifts on purpose, but that “episodic charm” can read as meandering when you’re waiting for the story to actually land somewhere. That said, the performances have an easy, lived-in spark and the period atmosphere is richly observed, so if you’re happy to just spend time in a mood rather than chase a narrative payoff, it can work.