Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

The subtitle “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” Hunter S. Thompson’s classic work of Gonzo Journalism is “A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream,” and that’s the key to appreciating both the book and Terry Gilliam’s astonishing 1998 film version. Rob Gonsalves said in his review, “The surface reading of the “story” would be that of two guys wandering around Vegas getting loaded and having a variety of progressively insane misadventures. Its true subject, though, is the sea-to-shining-sea derangement of America, its uneasy mix of forbidding Puritanism and greedhead capitalism, its straight-arrows who seem weirder than the weirdos, the “normal” recreational activities so bizarre they render drug hallucinations redundant.”

Gonsalves continued, “The great rebel Terry Gilliam is ideal for this material, and he approaches Fear and Loathing as a sort of extension of the odd little cut-out animations he used to do for Monty Python. This is his best work since Brazil, and very likely the most vivid and mesmerizing American comedy of the ’90s.” (Typically, the reviews were savage.) Working with cinematographer Nicola Pecorini, and shooting for the first time in Panavision (which heightens his famous wide-angle alterations), Gilliams makes a beautiful/ugly visual poem, a nervous, straight-faced exercise in fiery red and aqua blue and paranoid green – the American dream as mescaline nightmare.

Johnny Depp submerges himself in the role of “Raoul Duke” (i.e., Thompson), a sportswriter who goes to Vegas to cover the Mint 400 (a desert race for motorcycle and dune buggies). Joining him is “Dr. Gonzo,” played by Benicio Del Toro, a crazy Samoan attorney inspired by Thompson’s friend Oscar Acosta. Gonsalves noted, “Their rented red Chevy convertible is a drugstore on wheels — the movie could be retitled Apothecary Now.” The men are always snorting or smoking one drug or another, falling around casinos while completely intoxicated on ether or acid. Strangely, intercourse doesn’t play much of a role, except for an artistic runaway stray, played by Christina Ricci, the attorney picks up. Duke is as neutral as the lizards he hallucinates.

Which could be part of the point. “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” is about the ways American men direct desperation – through idiotic, punishing sports, or firearm worship, or fascism (Duke also – hysterically – covers a narc convention). Gonsalves mentioned, “Despite the occasional threats and knife-waving, our anti-heroes are as close as soldiers in a foxhole, and Depp and Del Toro bring out the best in each other. Del Toro, packing an added 40 pounds, does his most lucid and comprehensible work (amazing, considering the wacked-out loon he’s playing), and Depp doesn’t just imitate Thompson — he channels the man’s rubbery outlaw spirit.” Funny and disgusting, obnoxious yet in some ways miserable, Depp’s performance should kill, once and for all, whatever good-looking image he still has left.

Gonsalves noted, “Gilliam wisely uses Thompson’s writing as narration, and the script — which he cowrote with Tony Grisoni, reworking an early attempt by Alex Cox (Sid & Nancy) and Tod Davies — is scrupulously faithful to the book. Yet Gilliam doesn’t let Thompson off the hook — the movie isn’t just a jokey celebration of weirdness.” In scenes like the one with Ellen Barkin as a waitress pestered by the knife-waving attorney, Gilliam measures the human cost of his protagonist’s insanity. Those who complain that the film glorifies its heroes just aren’t paying attention. Duke and his attorney make themselves crazy outsiders, but they’re just as much a part of purgatory America as the demons they meet. Actually, they’re more: living it up, ruining classy hotel rooms, getting away with everything short of murder, they embody the American dream in their own confused, dirty way – a nightmare of extra and drinking.

Gonsalves said, “That’s the true horror and comedy of the book, and Gilliam gets every bit of it onto the screen. Thompson’s book has endured for 27 years, and not just because of its drug-induced strangeness: like William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch, it uses hallucinatory states as a funhouse mirror on the sordid, ugly face of humanity.” Gilliam’s film will likewise tolerate, and outlive the short-sighted critical criticizing. Years from now, it will be checked as a misunderstood masterpiece. Actually, I think it is now being thought about that currently, but I’m not quite sure.

Be careful, this is one crazy movie. For me, I only need to see this movie once and I never have to see it again. Then again, I guess that’s the whole point to the film where it shows the insanity of the American dream and what’s it like to be addicted. This is categorized as a “Black Comedy,” which I believe it was when I looked up the film. Check it out if you’d like, but just be forewarned that this movie can get insane.

Check in next week for the next review in “Benicio Del Toro Month” where I look at a classic movie that should be seen by everyone.