As the trailer for the film adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary makes its way around the internet and into the laps of Gonzo-followers, the premier looms and conjures previous imaginings of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson on the silver screen. Thompson – or more appropriately, his alter-ego Raoul Duke – has been portrayed in two films based on his 1971 account of debauchery and the chase of the American dream through the Las Vegas desert: Terry Gilliam’s 1998 adaptation Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Art Linson’s 1980 Where the Buffalo Roam. Given the same source material for both films, the question becomes whether or not there is a successful interpretation of the good doctor’s sardonic journey, replete with “two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline … a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, laughers, screamers,” and enough ether to saturate the floorboards and impel the “helpless, irresponsible and depraved” ether binge.
Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing is much more stylized, but this does not necessarily translate to success. At times, he captures the madness and confusion of drug binges, but, most often, these depictions often come across as cartoonish. Whereas a movie like Trainspotting married visceral images of drug use and despair with the abuser’s contradictory feeling of elation, this film often comedifies the entire situation with Duke’s (Johnny Depp) exaggerated bow-legged walk, his constantly googling eyes, and his tendency to jerk hyperbolically beyond his own description of an “Irish drunkard.”
The same stylistic flaws can be seen as Gilliam attempts to faithfully translate Thompson’s account of Duke’s hallucinations while he and his faithful lawyer Dr. Gonzo (Benicio Del Toro) find themselves in a “reptile bar” after “checking into a Federal hotel under a phony name and commit capital fraud on a headful of acid.” The way in which the “giant bats” appear only in reflections in Duke’s and Dr. Gonzo’a sunglasses, and woven vines in the carpet come to life and wind their way around the employees’ ankles is subtle, haunting and trippy, though the transmogrification of patrons into gila monsters and kimoda dragons foreshadows the fatal flaw in his most recent full-length feature, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. The ability to use special effects does not dictate that they must be used – or ensure that they will be used well. Here, their ubiquity often distracts from any poignancy being conveyed by the voice-over narration that has been taken from the original novel.
Aside from the overzealous use of CGI, Fear and Loathing translates well…I think. In one sense, this film embodies Thompson’s belief that art exists in the gray area of truth and fiction, a chiaroscuro that dismisses objective journalism in favor of braving beyond the politically correct recollection of certain histories. At the same time, Fear and Loathing could also be categorized as overly stylized schlock that embraces the ability to conjure obscure images but shows no temperament or restraint, choosing to sacrifice political and social satire for moments that might best define the film as a cult classic – not for its content, insight, or poignancy, but for lines that recall “two women fucking a polar bear.” If in fact the movie is geared to the former, then it speaks to Thompson’s belief that his journalistic beat was the “death of the American dream.” If it’s the latter, then the film becomes a wasted interpretation that hardly does the good Doctor Thompson justice.
At the same time, there is at least one glaring success in Gilliam’s film, namely the separation of the author Thompson from his character Duke. While the novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is supposed to be autobiographical, it’s no secret that Thompson builds much of his narration on shreds of truth and was once introduced as the “most accurate and least factual” journalist in America.
Perhaps this is why Thompson preferred Gilliam’s film to Linson’s – and even makes a cameo during one of Duke’s binges. Perhaps it’s because Gilliam truly cartoonifies Duke, separating him from Thompson while keeping some of his basic mannerisms and inflections true to the inspiration. While Depp’s bow-legged stroll is hyperbolized – as if he’s constantly stepping “giant bat” feces — there are still nuances that belong to Thompson. The same can be said for the chaotic attention paid to Duke’s cigarette holder, a fixture that follows nearly every image found of the real Thompson. Some might suggest that this exaggerated rendition bastardizes who Thompson was, but that’s the point, and, in fact, it appears it would be what Thompson would have wanted. Check out the video below for the real-life Thompson’s rant on a BBC reporter who neglects to distinguish between him and Duke:
The frustration that lies beneath Thompson’s assertion that “I’m never sure which one people expect me to be … most often, with people I don’t know, I’m expected to be Duke, not Thompson” illustrates the obscured distinction between the character and the author, something that is doubly depicted in the movie as Duke receives a telegram addressed to Thompson c/o Duke. And maybe this speaks to the world of journalism in general where the visage of an author is far less important than the words he or she generates. In other words, Thompson’s name is well known, but his image could be transfered to various other personas.
The primary issue that I’ve found with the film is that, in the end, it lacks the mordant satire that Thompson offered in his novel. To its credit, one of the final voice-overs is poignant, but it’s a gauntlet getting to Duke’s – and I would venture Thompson’s — epiphany that the ideology of the sixties has ceased its death rattle and now lies rigor mortised and rotting, lamenting those people who followed Timothy Leary and the drug culture ideologically “without ever giving thought to the grim meat-hooks realities that were lying in wait for all those who took him seriously.”
In the end, the final ten minutes of the film are the cathartic apex that the novel built to. Unfortunately, the first hour and change takes itself and Thompson’s cultish following for granted.
Regarding Linson’s adaptation of the novel: it begins with Neil Young’s acoustic, nasally, sardonic rendition of “Where the Buffalo Roam,” but this clearly becomes the high point as everything after descends to a confused mixture of poorly written dialog, arbitrary moments that are loosely tethered to events in Thompson’s writings, and Bill Murray trying desperately not to be Bill Murray. To his credit, Murray mimics Thompson’s mannerisms and vocal inflections almost to a tee, but still, there are moments when Murray’s Wild Turkey-induced slurrings are more akin to Carl Spackler (from Caddyshack, a film also released in 1980) than Duke or Thompson. In what might be the penultimate flaw of Where the Buffalo Roam, it deviates from separating Duke and Thompson, rendering them one in the same character. The ultimate sin is its lack of poignancy and the confusion of whether or not it’s a campy biopic or a faithful adaptation of the novel that subtitles itself as a Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream.
