1998 – MEDO E DELÍRIO (FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS), dirigido poe Terry Gilliam (Os 12 Macacos/ Irmãos Grimm).
Hunter S. Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" is a funny book by a gifted writer, who seems gifted and funny no longer. He coined the term "gonzo journalism" to describe his guerrilla approach to reporting, which consisted of getting stoned out of his mind, hurling himself at a story, and recording it in frenzied hyperbole.
Ah, but he was funny before he flamed out. "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" is a film based on the book of the same name, a stream-of-altered-consciousness report of his trip to Vegas with his allegedly Samoan attorney. In the trunk of their car they carried an inventory of grass, mescaline, acid, cocaine, uppers, booze, and ether. That ether, it's a wicked high. Hurtling through the desert in a gas-guzzling convertible, they hallucinated attacks by giant bats, and "speaking as your attorney," the lawyer advised him on drug ingestion.
The movie is a joyride for masochists, yet it raises a question: Is this simply a disastrous adaptation, or does its maniacal indulgence fail because it?s true to Thompson?s words? A little of both. Gilliam seals us off from any connection to his hell-bent antiheroes. His vision is too reflexively comic to evoke the shadows of dread in Thompson?s writing. What he has caught, all too well, is the spiritual deadness. As a book, and now a movie, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas remains a stoned celebration of emotional indifference. For a while, that was cool. Now it?s boring.