With a bit of luck, his life was ruined forever. Always thinking that just behind some narrow door in all of his favorite bars, men in red woolen shirts are getting incredible kicks from things he'll never know.
The filmi is great, even if it's not really a film. I mean, it all hinges on whether you count Leonard Cohen among the musicians. If what he does is music then Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is a film. If what Cohen does is reading poetry, then Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is exactly the same. Depp reads H. S. Thompson masterfully, in a staccato style which seems specially constructed and is perfectly adequate. That's pretty much all there is : a voice which reads to us. Well.
Gilliam's insane mishmash of colors and textures that used to belong to various objects before being sucked into the camera vortex creates the exact scrunchy dark purple velvet against which this performance belongs displayed, affixed with a steel pin in a tiny droplet of really red blood. I think it conceivable that the end product, very much the cinematic equivalent of a lsd-coated extasy pill with delicious mescaline cake filling is what lost Depp. Arguably not such a bad way to go, devoured by your very own, very successful creation. Well...
- Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, 1998, by Terry Gilliam on Hunter S. Thompson, with Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro [↩]