Locusts, liquor, beasts and bastards; it breathes with rum-tinged breath a gonzo vernacular that can only mean the work of one man - Hunter S. Thompson.
The writer’s only published work of fiction, The Rum Diary, has been adapted for the big screen, and will be the much appreciated drug of choice for addicts of Thompson’s work who prefer to let his wackiness wash over them in audio-visual form. Starring Hollywood’s own version of the man, ageing Cherokee dreamboat Johnny Depp, the simplest of viewers couldn’t be blamed for (like thinking that Val Kilmer is actually the real guy out the Doors) believing that Johnny and Hunter and one and the same.
Sorry, I’m being utterly cynical. It’s always tempting to be cynical when one individual has a whole genre pinned on him. Gonzo journalism is a definition only ever really given credit by the work of Thomson. He created it, after all, monopolising on his eccentricity and a vocabulary as colourful as his weekends.
Depp’s character, aspiring (but failing) novelist Paul Kemp, in many ways mirrors the life of its original creator. Thompson also spent time looking for work in Puerto Rico, and he too took on journalism as a preliminary career, hoping to later graduate to the golden realms of fiction. Depp fits the bill comfortably, with his innately kooky gait and camp demeanour. Recently, I have almost been thinking that his distinctive style would suit well a retirement to the stage, so theatrical are his expressions. It was this slapstick element that made me walk out of The Tourist barely halfway through, laughing bitterly. But here, in vibrant Puerto Rico, it works. He’s ‘artistic’, as his editor, played by Richard Jenkins, may have put it.
I doubt that the film will do the same for the field of journalism as it no doubt has for rum sales. The journalism film is a genre of its own, from His Girl Friday to Never Been Kissed, and academic literature can even be found on this representation of a professional reality in the arts (see Brian McNair’s Journalists in Film: Heroes and Villians). But perhaps ‘reality’ is not the right word. Invariably, journalists are portrayed on the silver screen as hackneyed, chain-smoking characters with no respect for their liver or deadlines. Health warning, kids: don’t trust this myth. Work on your shorthand before you start on the hard stuff.
Although, in saying that, Thompson offered a compelling argument when he said, “Does it look like drugs have fucked me up? I’m sitting here on a beautiful beach in Mexico; I’ve written three books. I’ve got a fine one-hundred acre fortress in Colorado. On that evidence, I’d have to advise the use of drugs.” So go on, if you’re brave enough, try it.
Having gone off on a tangent here, I’ll return to the film to say that it’s giggly entertainment, made charming by performances from Michael Rispoli and Giovanni Ribisi, who, combined with a pari of bloodshot contacts, makes a hilarious and startlingly believable drunk.
The one downside is the woman-shaped hole in the plot. There is a fluffy romance, with Amber Heard playing the lucky lady who gets to snog Depp. But her character is disappointingly hollow.
It seems that portrayal of the female in cinema suffers the same sort of 2D misrepresentation as that of the ubiquitous journalist.
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