The possibilities were endless and seemed rather promising. Here we have a Terry Gilliam (12 MONKEYS, BRAZIL) directed film based on the wacky exploits of journalist Hunter S. Thompson's 1971 bizarre trippy story yet somehow FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS falls short of nothing really spectacular or earth-shatteringly surreal. In fact, this film comes off as murky and dreary and never really establishes the momentum of the dazed or dizzy delightfulness it wants to elicit in irreverent fortitude. The hippie-hallucinatory happenings of Gilliam's picture doesn't phase the imagination in the least bit, opting to recall the grotesque giddiness of this disjointed and disengaging flightiness. But even though the carefree whims are gradually exercised through the drugs and denigrating display of meritless frivolity, there seems to be no zonked zest behind the depraved motivations of Gilliam's protagonists. FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS struggles in its intention on trying to provide the demonic exuberance but the film never really materializes this intention properly, leaving this whole regrettable offbeat experience as tediously scanty and needlessly contrived like some nicotine-induced nightmare.
The adventures involve that ravenous playground known as Las Vegas where the corruption and consumption is as obviously evident as realizing that grass is green. The high-strung, wild anxious moments surrounding Las Vegas in the early 70's are quite inviting for the likes of drug-induced rebels Raoul Duke (Johnny Depp's Hunter S. Thompson-inspired persona) and Benicio Del Toro's characterization of Dr. Gonzo. These free-wheeling pothead professionals--Duke a reporter and Gonzo a lawyer--escape to Vegas via Los Angeles in a red convertible to soak up the drowsy-moodiness of the naughty Vegas scene. Their assignment: to cover the Mint 400 motorcycle race. Their other assignment: to report on the prevention against drug abuse (Gilliam apparently was desperate to highlight this inane irony, huh?). But the movie sidetracks itself in order to bring to attention the mellifluent, mischievous antics of these two drug-induced misfits. This whole scenario of course suggests the brunt of Duke's and Gonzo's aimless existence as they wander around stoned in mind and in curiosity. They escape to zones of the city, whether in their hotel rooms or nightspots conducive to their foggy state-of-mind, where they can experience that counterculture ecstasy. The drug-laden effects take their toll, bestowing upon our substance abusers the imaginary and metaphorical images that parade around in their delusive world.
For a while, the notion for a conceptual freak show regarding psychedelic dregs seeking absolute outlawish freedom played rather well given the hipness of Thompson's anti-hero insubordinance. But the playful spirit of Hunter S. Thompson (not to mention his cinematic counterparts) with his drug-addled, happy-hellish state of mindset seems so blatantly outdated and strangely inconsequential. Director Terry Gill iam has an effortless manner in which he clouds the screen with fading shapes and eye-catching colors for which he hopes will help lose one's facilities just like his prurient protagonists. However, we are never really convinced about the misguided convictions of Duke and Gonzo's anti-establishment behavior. Both do not make us feel that they are the plausible renegades to guide us through this devious field trip of harebrained hedonism. It takes more than Depp's make-up guise of a chrome-domed head, elephant-sized sunglasses, bright flowered shirts, and his cigarette holder sticking out of his mouth to help convey the obsessive and excessive amorality of Thompson's tainted tendencies. Maybe the pungency of Thompson's material is too lucid or challenging for Gilliam's direction to capture. Perhaps there's no apparent freshness or relevant regard to Thompson's nihilistic nuances. Plain and simple...his state of nirvana unfolds quickly like a cheap army cot.
There has to be a certain amount of sophistication and purpose to pinpoint the conspicuous fixation of Thompson's sedate, seedy story. But with exaggerated, awkward performances by Depp and Del Toro's drug-dazing antics and a meandering insignificance behind the storyline's offbeat convictions, FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS fails to conquer the cockeyed incoherence of the times. Instead, we have no fear in loathing this dissatisfying, jumbled and jaunty inconsolable mess.
Frank rates this film: * 1/2 stars