What a strange, occasionally magnificent folly is Terry Gilliam's film of Hunter S. Thompson's mind-altering-substance-fueled kaddish for the '60s. By turns mordantly funny, horribly tedious and indulgent of the worst sort of self-indulgence, this
astonishingly faithful adaptation of Thompson's account of three days of drug-crazed degeneracy in 1971 Las Vegas is both defiantly out of step with current times and obstinately hard to surrender to: The sound is mixed into a numbing jumble of words and sheer noise, the killer soundtrack is
muffled, and every glorious, candy-colored image is undermined by some scorched-earth shot of just-plain hideousness. Johnny Depp pl...