This is more than just a graphic biography — the authors have a point to make about Thompson’s life and work. It’s often said that his greatest work came early, in Hell’s Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and in his articles on political/cultural topics, especially on the 1972 election campaign. This book takes a similar view and adds some color on his inability to recreate some of those early great works.
The graphics themselves are clean and well-designed to set the mood of Thompson’s hectic, scattered, and often depressed life. The two images that stand out are, as on the cover, Thompson in full flight to or from somewhere, and then in a kind of deflated contemplation, reflecting on things around him going in ugly directions.
The text varies between a first person narrative, as if Thompson were speaking from the grave in reflection on his life, and a present-tense presentation of events in their time.
All of Thompson’s life here has a kind of accidental haphazard quality to it. The constant is his commitment to journalism. His commitment was real and deep, but the forms it took went it some odd directions, sometimes spectacularly successful but with a cost.
Thompson was writing a serious article on the death of journalist Ruben Salazar in a Chicano organized march against the VietNam War at the same time that he was writing the piece on Las Vegas and “the American Dream.” He calls the Las Vegas story “a fun thing”, “not a factual story . . . but maybe a true one.” It seems to have taken precedence over a more traditional journalistic focus on events and facts, a way to express and show something that couldn’t be shown in specific facts — fiction was a better way to show the truth.
He had hit on something, and it was a huge success. What followed was different and deflating — the election of 1972. Thompson was deeply invested in the McGovern campaign. The only way McGovern could win against the monster Nixon was to draw on a new source of votes, the young vote, impassioned by opposition to the war. And Thompson committed himself to helping to make it happen.
It didn’t happen. And now there was Nixon. It was a moral defeat. A defeat for the idealism that had survived through the war and the emptiness of the American Dream in Vegas.
It all seemed to end then. Thompson’s wife Sandy left him in 1980. Here, in the book, the 80s are a blank. And in the 90s, Thompson’s life has deteriorated — he’s angry, frustrated, and unproductive. He can’t recreate the time or the greatness of Fear and Loathing, and, for that matter, he’s no longer living the life of Hunter Thompson, committed political journalist, but the life his success almost curely created, the anti-hero life of Raoul Duke.
Alan Rinzler, Thompson’s editor for some of his best work, says in the Foreword to the book, “I’m sorry to see the spectacle of Hunter as the King of Gonzo — a brain-addled, angry, deeply depressed, self-destructive lout — has prevailed in the popular consciousness while the real story of this ground-breaking prose artist and investigative journalist has all but disappeared.”
Rinzler is right, and I can’t help but think that some of the blame at least falls on us as Thompson’s readers, reveling in the Raoul Duke character and demanding that Thompson be Duke and give us another Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, instead of the guy that wrote uniquely insightful political and cultural commentary. We should keep reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas -- it's truly a great and innovative work -- but I really wish we had the author of things like his article on "Hashbury" or his 1972 campaign articles around to help today.