The Sweet Taste of Youth: How ‘Licorice Pizza’ Captures the Beautiful Chaos of Growing Up
By Natalie McCarty
Paul Thomas Anderson’s Licorice Pizza is a sun-drenched, bittersweet ode to the messy, unpredictable magic of youth. Set in the 1970s San Fernando Valley, it tells the story of Gary Valentine (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman’s son, Cooper Hoffman), a 15-year-old child actor-turned-hustler, and Alana Kane (Alana Haim of the Haim Sisters/band, Haim), a 25-year-old woman searching for her place in the world.
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On the surface, Licorice Pizza is a love letter to a simpler time—complete with polyester suits, waterbeds, and the carefree atmosphere of a pre-digital world. But beneath its nostalgic exterior lies a deeper exploration of ambition, identity, and the awkward spaces between adolescence and adulthood.
The film has a loose, rambling energy that defies traditional storytelling structure. It doesn’t build toward a singular, climactic moment but instead unfolds like a series of vignettes, with the cinematography telling much of the narrative and visually revealing something new about the characters.
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From waterbed schemes to political campaigns, Anderson allows Gary and Alana to wander through a world that is simultaneously full of opportunity and completely absurd. This episodic approach gives Licorice Pizza its unique flavor, one that feels both spontaneous and richly detailed–and extremely reminiscent of Fast Times at Ridgemont High. In this sense, Licorice Pizza belongs in a long lineage of films that glorify the reckless abandon of young people, yet it strays from the formulaic high school tropes of its predecessors. Anderson doesn't give us hormone-driven misfits in search of a prom date or a bong hit. Instead, he gives us Gary Valentine, a 15-year-old hustler with big dreams, and Alana Kane, a restless 25-year-old woman caught between boredom and wanderlust.
What makes Licorice Pizza so effective, though, isn’t just the nostalgic glow of its setting or its quirky plotlines. It’s the emotional honesty at the heart of the film. Gary and Alana are both characters in transition—Gary, eager to grow up too fast, and Alana, uncertain about her future but stuck in a state of arrested development. Their age gap is uncomfortable and yet, Anderson never exploits it for cheap drama. Instead, he uses it to explore the tension between the desire for freedom and the fear of stepping into adulthood.
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The film’s inability to reconcile the innocence of its protagonists with the messiness of their situation. Gary’s age is a fact that Anderson never quite lets us forget, and while Alana’s uncertainty is relatable, her closeness to a teenager is not. Is this a fairy tale about mismatched love, or a cautionary tale about nostalgia’s tendency to gloss over uncomfortable truths? Anderson walks a fine line, never quite condemning the relationship, but never fully celebrating it either.
Having been in an unhealthy age-gap relationship in my youth and later experienced healthy age-gap relationships in adulthood, I understand the complexities and concerns surrounding such dynamics. I’m not defending the director or dismissing the problematic aspects of age gaps, but given that the story is drawn from his own life, I can appreciate the nuanced storytelling. It portrays how a relationship between people in the same life stage, with differing in wisdom, experience, and perspective, can be transformative (akin to Call Me By Your Name).
Still from Licorice Pizza (2021)
Alana Haim’s performance is nothing short of refreshing. Best known as one-third of the rock band Haim, she brings an earthy vulnerability to Alana that feels raw and unpolished. She’s magnetic and awkward, tough yet searching, and her chemistry with Cooper Hoffman carries the film. Hoffman, in his debut role, channels his late father Philip Seymour Hoffman’s charm and awkward intensity with an authenticity that grounds the movie’s more surreal elements. Together, they create a relationship that, while unconventional, is full of tenderness and mutual curiosity.
Still from Licorice Pizza (2021)
The brilliance of Licorice Pizza is how it captures those in-between moments of youth—the messy, sometimes mundane, yet deeply formative experiences that shape who we become. It’s not about grand gestures or epic revelations. It’s about small connections, fleeting feelings, and the uncertainty of figuring out who you are and what you want. In this sense, Anderson doesn’t just rely on nostalgia to paint a rosy picture of the past. Instead, he uses it to evoke the bittersweet complexity of growing up—the blend of excitement and confusion, hope and frustration, that defines youth.
Still from Licorice Pizza (2021)
Visually, the film has such a unique quality of nostalgia. It catapults you into a feeling of remembering a life that, while not yours exactly, you might have lived parallel. Anderson’s love for 70s aesthetics is evident in every frame—from the hazy, golden light that saturates the Valley to the period-perfect details in the costumes and set design. The film’s soundtrack, featuring era-defining tracks by artists like David Bowie, Paul McCartney, and Sonny & Cher, further immerses the audience in this bygone world. But even as Anderson revels in the visual and auditory pleasures of the 70s, he never lets it overshadow the emotional core of the story. It’s not a cheap period piece, selling solely off of decade appeal.
The film’s title, Licorice Pizza, is a playful contradiction—two things that don’t quite belong together, much like Gary and Alana. But, just like the title suggests, the beauty of the film lies in these contrasts.
It’s a film about opposites: youth and adulthood, ambition and uncertainty, comedy and drama. And Anderson doesn’t force these elements to cohere neatly. Instead, he lets them exist in their natural, chaotic state, reflecting a life authentically lived.
Still from Licorice Pizza (2021)
Licorice Pizza is a love story, but not in the traditional sense. It’s less about romantic fulfillment and more about the awkward, unpredictable paths we take to discover ourselves. Anderson’s vision of the 70s is not an idealized version of the past, but rather a canvas on which he paints the messiness of life’s transitions. There’s a subtle melancholy beneath the film’s sunlit surface—a recognition that the innocence of youth is fleeting, and that the march toward adulthood is fraught with uncertainty.
The film is a testament to the beauty of imperfection. Like its title, Licorice Pizza is strange and unexpected, a combination of ingredients that shouldn’t work but somehow do. It’s a celebration of the unpolished moments that make life memorable, the stumbles and the successes, the fleeting highs and lingering doubts. And in Anderson’s hands, it becomes a masterful exploration of how we learn to navigate the complexities of growing up—whether we’re 15 or 25, or somewhere in between.
