Death by Adaptation: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
UniversalScreaming down the road in the Great Red Shark convertible, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas defined one era and disturbed another. Hunter S. Thompson’s 1971 literary classic was a storm whipped up deep in the heart of American politics. The only way to get in and out intact, he realised, was to go in without sense. Drugs, drink and depraved madness made Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas a seminal piece of writing, not just for its vibrant narrative, but the ease of trust readers could have in this drug-fuelled writer and his Samoan associate. Inevitable adaptations ahead, and with Terry Gilliam heading up the project, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas made its way to the big brains of Hollywood.
Adapting such a vivid piece of literature is no small feat. Thompson writes with clarity, despite the disfigured approach to his writing. Gonzo journalism – to write with immersion and without a point – is the driving force behind Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It is the energy within this writing that makes it an inevitable piece for Gilliam to tackle. When audiences recall their fondest memories with Gilliam, they may remember the lustful, crushing blows of Brazil or the frenetic colours of The Fabulous Baron Munchausen. Both are common bedfellows for his work, and both appear within his adaptation of Thompson’s text. It is not just inevitable, but necessary, for he captures the dreaded realities that Fear and Loathing Las Vegas warns of.
But while Gilliam captures the scope and style of this larger-than-life character, he does not capture the literal meaning. For all the vivid imagery and Dutch camera angles, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as a feature is a mere series of vignettes. Entertaining, masterful vignettes, but episodic encounters and sketches of a much larger topic. Thompson’s narrative in his drug-addled 70s classic is not the pursuit of a good time, but the freak show running down the American Dream. His depravity and reliance on substances are not just to seek out a great time, but a sedative for what Thompson believed would be the downfall of the great American ride. One that frowned upon deviants such as himself for daring to escape the rat race Richard Nixon and his gang had forced upon them.
Gilliam misses that. He does not dive into the political spectrum found within Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Perhaps it is because no clear answer to the pertinent questions is ever founded by Thompson, or maybe it is because, by the time the adaptation rolled onto screens, Nixon was long gone. Thompson, too, in a sense, had moved far beyond what Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas showcases. He was a husk of the man he was, burnt out by the booze and bad vibes. That much shows in his later works and inability to focus. He passes the torch onto the next host, and Gilliam chose well. Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro bring such dedication to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas that it turns the series of scenes into something far more palatable and recognisable.
It is no mistake that Gilliam, his style, and his cast match up so well with the mania-induced frenzy presented in the text. There are inevitable differences, but Gilliam nails the aesthetic appeal. The lack of morality that feasts on the minds of Raoul Duke (Depp) and Dr. Gonzo (Del Toro) are synonymous with the wild-eyes of the characters and the degrading surroundings they soon find themselves in. Thompson is frequent in his description of the location and just how bad it gets. What he does to make his behaviour turn from questionable to horrid to immoral is an inevitable spiral that Depp and Gilliam work so hard to capture.
They do so with a variety of strong intentions and sweeping messages. By far the greatest draw Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas can offer is its colour. Raw adrenaline dripping from the brow of any character, the literal sense of paranoia overcoming their decision-making skills, that much is shown. But at what cost? Gilliam never sinks his teeth into what that could mean for the characters or their motivations. He grabs at iconic lines from the text and adapts them well, but some of the flavour is lost. That hint of venom that was strung on every word Thompson spilt out is lost, not because Gilliam does not try, but because time has prevented it. There was an effort present, but it certainly could have gone better. Instead, Gilliam acknowledges the difficulty of adapting the politics of the 1970s to the screen and instead turns his hand to character development. It would be difficult to record the anger toward Nixon, having known he was both dead and impeached well before the film was in the works.
There are workarounds, and it is a credit to Gilliam and his cameo-clad cast that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas screeches onto the screen relatively unscathed. At least it pops visually, despite the let-down of meaning or reason. Entertainment is very much on the mind of this director. He manages to spin the most violent and regressive of Thompson’s writing into visual circuses. Alligators line the bar as Duke experiences a bad trip. They are shown as thieves in the throes of debauchery, because as Thompson famously said, “the only crime is getting caught.” Gilliam uses his keen eye for visuals to bring those quotes to life. Harry Dean Stanton briefly appearing as the judge to expand on the quote does far more than a conversation between Depp and Toro would. A cameo from Cameron Diaz provides background to the ferocity and intensity of Dr. Gonzo. It provides more impact than a line or two of dialogue would from Toro.
Still, there is only so far Gilliam can take this prose. One of the many beautiful aspects of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is that it is slick, fast and maddening. Thompson sees Las Vegas as the point of no return. It is where sin goes to thrive and inevitably return to the sinless parts of good America, where people still cling to the values of the American Dream. Thompson speaks of the “place where the wave finally broke and rolled back,” and that is the key line that ties Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas together not just as a piece of literature, but an expansive essay on why the American Dream burst. Gilliam’s adaptation lacks that, but it is the lighter tone that makes this happen. Thompson had the heart of an alligator, there was no way of reigning in that beast well enough to adapt his work successfully. Gilliam accepts defeat, takes a spin of his own, and comes out with a feature that, while especially different from the text it is based upon, is one hell of an interesting ride.
The violence, vandalism, and vagrancy that ran through the text are present in the feature, but it loses the opportunity to grasp its most titular topics. Fear and loathing. Gilliam never gets to grips with that inherent fear Thompson had for the direction of the American Dream. His realisation that this dream was slowly dying was the driving force of why Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is such a powerful text. Opportunities to observe the cultural classes within the book are used as backdrops to the film. Where the message lingers, it is now lost, and for all the bright sparks of colour and flavour, there is little case for the compelling arguments Thompson made in his book. Gilliam cannot add to that, for the dream is dead, and it took the author with it.