Good Will/Hunter

An exciting new movie opened last week about a man trapped by his public persona — a cantankerous hero with extraordinary talents, a surly streak, a drinking problem and a knack for leaving destruction in his path.

Will Smith? “Hancock?” Huh? Who’s talking about “Hancock?” I’m referring, of course, to “Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson,” Alex Gibney’s new documentary about the creator of “Gonzo journalism,” who committed suicide in 2005. “Gonzo” runs two hours, but, thanks to Gibney and his contributors, it never feels overlong.

It would be impossible to overestimate the influence “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” and Thompson’s other work had on a generation of journalists. The influence may have not always been a positive thing —young writers tended to try to sound like Thompson rather than project their own voices as strongly — but it was undeniable and sometimes liberating.

Gibney (“Taxi to the Dark Side,” “Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room”) takes a relatively straightforward, chronological approach, whipping through the early biographical details before slowing down to tell us about Thompson’s first career breakthrough, with the book “Hell’s Angels.” He includes footage of Thompson as a guest on the TV quiz show “To Tell the Truth,” flanked by two obvious actors made up to fit some TV producer’s notion of bikers. (Who knew?) It’s as surreal as anything in his later work.

After “Hell’s Angels” came his campaign for sheriff of Aspen County and his famous piece for Scanlan’s about the Kentucky Derby — his first truly Gonzo story, and the first he did with illustrator Ralph Steadman. A year later, in 1971, Gonzo came to its greatest fruition with “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” in which Thompson, under both his own name and as Raoul Duke, forged the persona he would never escape. (Thompson was later pissed when Garry Trudeau appropriated his autobiographical character for “Doonesbury’s” Uncle Duke, which raises all kinds of interesting issues about whether public figures “own” the “rights” to themselves and about the extent to which the protagonist of “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” is Thompson himself or a fictional creation.)

Thompson’s political concerns led to “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail,” a collection of his Rolling Stone coverage of the 1972 election, which George McGovern’s campaign manager Frank Mankiewicz famously called “the most accurate and least factual account of the campaign.” Among the talking heads in Gibney’s film are McGovern, Gary Hart, Jimmy Carter, pollster Pat Caddell, and even —gulp! — Pat Buchanan. Many of us first heard of Buchanan through a Thompson dispatch, in which he tips the writer off to the true (unbelievably cynical) meaning of Nixon’s decision to retain Agnew as his running mate.

Also on hand are both of Thompson’s wives, his son, Rolling Stone founder Jann Wenner, Steadman, Tom Wolfe, Jimmy Buffett and literary executor Douglas Brinkley. Johnny Depp, who portrayed him in Terry Gilliam’s film version of “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” acts as his voice, reading from his works in voice-over with occasional appearances onscreen. (The film doesn’t mention that Depp also footed the bill for the extravagant final sendoff celebration Thompson had designed for himself years earlier.)

Gibney uses a fair amount of footage from Gilliam’s film, as well as from three films shot by Wayne Ewing (including “Breakfast with Hunter,” released theatrically in 2003). But more fascinating is his incorporation of real bits of rare source material, such as the original audiotape Thompson and companion Oscar Zeta Acosta made while “searching for the American Dream” in Las Vegas (later transcribed in “Fear and Loathing”).

At times, it’s hard to tell where Thompson’s voice ends and Depp’s begins or to discern the lines between the documentary footage and fictional re-creations (mostly from the Gilliam film) — which is a case of form echoing the film’s themes. That is, during the last three decades of Thompson’s life, his focus seems to have been shattered by a blurring between his personas — public and private, fictional and real. He had an image to live up to; he became, as Wolfe puts it, “trapped in Gonzo.” Most poignantly, Thompson says that, when appearing at colleges, “I’m not sure who to be: Duke or Thompson ... I don’t know which one they hired.”

As for that other surly protagonist with a drinking problem....
Will Smith — arguably the most reliable box office draw in Hollywood — stars as Hancock, a down-and-out superhero. Dressed in shabby rags, Hancock flies to the rescue like Superman ... but without bothering to think things through. He can’t intervene in a high-speed freeway pursuit without causing far more damage than the fugitives ever could have. As a result, he’s constantly taking guff from the citizenry, and he responds with misanthropic insults.

It takes awhile before we learn some of the reasons for his drinking and bad attitude, and awhile longer before we, along with the amnesiac Hancock, learn some of the truth about his origins. (Strangely enough, this story element — someone with an empty life resumé discovering the secret of his heritage —maps very closely to “Wanted.”)

When Hancock saves the life of PR flack Ray Embrey (Jason Bateman, seemingly Hollywood’s new go-to guy for generic middle-class thirtysomethings), Ray convinces him to work on his public image, which involves, among other things, surrendering himself to the DA for his many acts of public destruction. Ray’s idea is: willingly go to jail, and it won’t be long before they realize how much they need you.

Ray’s right; and soon the “new” Hancock is the toast of the town. Everyone seems to love him, except for Ray’s wife, Mary (Charlize Theron), who is curiously unfriendly.

“Hancock” starts out as a standard superhero action-comedy, with the emphasis on the latter, in the manner of “Superman” or “The Last Action Hero.” But about three-fifths of the way in, things take a sudden turn, with a plot development that caught me (and most of the audience I was with) totally by surprise, despite a number of ambiguous hints along the way.

While this switcheroo has put off many critics, it is precisely what I found most interesting about “Hancock.” The tone becomes more serious and the plot more complicated. The working out of some of the details is a little sloppy: near the very end, the villain (Eddie Marsan) seems to be referring to aspects of the story he couldn’t possibly know about.

Smith always shows up on screen with an enormous supply of audience goodwill; here, at the beginning, to make Hancock a little less boyishly likable, he seems at times to be channeling Samuel L. Jackson’s delivery. It’s a better fit than I would have guessed.