So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark-that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.” We had all the momentum we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. There was no point in fighting-on our side or theirs. Not in any mean or military sense we didn’t need that. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.Īnd that, I think, was the handle-that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda.
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change). Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket. My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights-or very early mornings-when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time-and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era-the kind of peak that never comes again. Both actors are world class in a film that squeezes your pleasure pads and wrings your brain but ultimately fails.“Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Equally stunning, Del Toro's massive 45-pound beer gut and vomit-flecked hair goes far beyond the call of thesping duty. The film itself, though, crumbles into oblivion through heavy symbolism (the American dream is blatantly represented as a wasteland of car wrecks) but still manages to maintain its shape even while melting, thanks to two exemplary performances: Depp progresses majestically through the picture like the author's clone - bald head, filtered cigarette, manic gestures - pulling out that little bit extra with a droll narration.
FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS BOOK SUMMARY FULL
The fact that anywhere on earth would resemble Hell if you digested 73 pellets of mescaline, a salt shaker full of cocaine and a pint of raw ether goes unnoticed because Gilliam has crafted scene after scene of hallucinatory brilliance, some of which - melting carpets, a literal lounge lizard attack - ranks among his most bizarre and best imagery to date. Not that much reporting gets done: for these boys are fully-fledged, card-carrying drug enthusiasts who swallow a suitcase of illegal pharmaceuticals and wander down the Vegas strip as if it were Hell on earth.
Gonzo (Del Toro) travelling to Las Vegas in 1971 to cover the legendary Mint 400 desert motocross. The plot, which generally takes a backseat to some magnificent images, follows sports writer Raoul Duke (Depp) and his Samoan attorney Dr. But unfortunately, when the lights go up, you're left with a headache. In the face of such insurmountable odds, Gilliam has bravely chosen to spike his film: it looks great, it gives you the giggles and it bends your mind.
Thompson's classic counterculture novel, you are handed a project which has been branded "unfilmable" by Hollywood for more than quarter of a century, a budget which requires the aid of a magnifying glass, one previous owner - Brit director Alex Cox who jumped ship when the oft-cited "creative differences" reared their ugly head - and an absentee landlord in Thompson himself, whose main interests amount to drinking heavily, firing shotguns or doing both simultaneously. As the director of the hugely anticipated adaptation of Hunter S. Put yourself in Terry Gilliam's shoes for a moment.
0 kommentar(er)
