When Hunter S Thompson took his own life nearly four years ago, those who knew him best weren’t surprised. The man who had been unfazed by a compulsive drink habit, varied and enthusiastic drug consumption and a house full of loaded guns strongly sensed that old age held nothing good for him. What is odd, looking back, is that in a cultural climate where there’s such a hunger for films about Hunter – ten years ago, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was a sensation on screen – it’s taken this long for a documentary to come out.
Especially considering that HST was one of the most photographed and most filmed writers of all time. Alex Gibney and Graydon Carter had a tough time cramming in as much as they could; every 15 minutes or so, the camera cuts away from an interview and into a rapid-fire montage of Hunter footage and headline shots. His commitment to his uniform was truly remarkable: the cigarette holder, sunglasses, shorts and converse.
This is a film to go see now. It’s also very disappointing. There are precious scenes – the various campaign-trail adventures of HST, the overarching parable of an iconic journalist whose legend overtakes him and makes him a caricature, hearing how Jann Wenner’s first name is actually pronounced – and these will convince any viewer that Hunter was one of the great, exciting minds of his time. It paints a picture of a generation.
But there are also strange, droning passages of re-enactments, those blurred segments of erratic driving and typewriter-tapping (with voice-over by Johnny Depp, reading HST pieces) whose style will be familiar from half-baked ITV docu-dramas. The interviews don’t bring to light as much new material as you would hope, and sweeping generalisations rule; a gripping but madly frustrating viewing experience.
Which brings home the feeling that ultimately, it’s HST’s words themselves that give the best sense of his enormous appetites and tricksy passions. Gonzo is a curious and memorable movie, and its strongest inflence will be to drive many back to the stuff that came directly out of that Selectric, pages which have lost none of their life since the author’s passing:
Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner. I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home — and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed — breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert…Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music... All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.
Mahalo, Doc.
