Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: Reflections on a City

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas film poster on display at my local independent theater

On Wednesday, I decided to head to The Beverly Theater, an independent film house located in the heart of Downtown Vegas (and conveniently located next door to my favorite bookstore, The Writer’s Block). They were screening a 4K cut of the 1998 adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, helmed by Terry Gilliam (please check out Monthy Python and the Holy Grail, Time Bandits, Brazil, and The Fisher King—all great). Being a huge fan of Thompson and the original text, plus it being almost 15 years since I last saw the film, I figured it would be a good chance to experience it again.

What I love most about rewatching movies is that with life come new perspectives and interpretations. While I have always remained a fan of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the way I watched it at age 19 is drastically different than how I react to it now as a 33-year-old. With the newfound clarity and sense of self that I have gained since the tragic December 6th, 2023 mass shooting at UNLV, I was curious to see how that would play into my experience.

Watching it again, it still impressed me: Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro’s off-the-wall and committed performances, coupled with the trippy, hallucinatory visuals and cinematography, as well as the irreverent humor, all stood out. Something I picked up on more this time around is the focal point of Las Vegas. Whoever ends up reading this is probably thinking, “Well, duh, of course, Las Vegas is present in the film, look at the fucking title,” but upon this viewing, I think Las Vegas really stands as a character in itself; it transcends its status as a mere city and a locus for excess and debauchery and becomes something else entirely.

As a Las Vegas native, I’ve borne witness to and have first-hand knowledge of everything that it has to offer. For a long time, however, I held a love/hate relationship with the bustling metropolis that I call my home. Yes, it is largely a 24/7 city with always something to do, but the flip side to that is because of the constant commotion, and it can be impersonal, especially given Las Vegas’ transient nature: people are always coming and going and not staying for long. Combined with the chaos of The Strip (don’t get me started on how expensive it is, too), I grew to almost resent living here. As Thompson himself aptly stated, “A little bit of this town goes a very long way.”

I feel like a broken record when I bring it up, but grappling with the aftermath of the shooting taught me to have a greater appreciation for life. It’s as if the fog that loomed over me lifted, allowing me to see everything in a whole new light. The mundane and everyday IS something worth celebrating. As part of my healing process, I would spend many days roaming down Fremont Street with my Nikon D3300 camera in hand (unofficially “borrowed” from my boyfriend, who has pretty much taught me everything I know about photography), taking photos of whatever caught my eye; the history and beauty of my surroundings and its wondrous sights brimming full of vibrant energy.

With that in mind, viewing Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas again, one scene in particular made an impact on me: near the end of the film, Johnny Depp’s Raoul Duke, typing away, trying to finish his story of the Mint 400 event, reflects on his memories of the “hippie generation” in California during the 1960’s, narrating:

“Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.”

Those words take on a profound new meaning when I think about my continually shifting relationship with my hometown during pivotal periods of my life. In graduate school, after monthly literary readings that the English department held, the students would congregate at Atomic Liquors (fun fact: Thompson was known to be a frequent customer there) on 10th and Fremont, talking about nothing and everything. On Friday nights, I go to my favorite club, Oddfellows, located at 6th and Ogden, dancing and mingling with new friends I meet. Many weekday afternoons have been spent lunching at Le Thai, also on 6th Street, enjoying a platter of pork belly bacon and a gigantic bowl of three-color curry.

In times like these, anything seems possible and reminds me of how grateful I am to be alive and experiencing THIS moment. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is regarded as a nuanced exploration of the elusiveness and warped vision of the American Dream; it also, oddly enough, gives me hope for the future and, dare I say, optimism, once a foreign feeling. I’m not ignoring the very real material conditions of the world and the suffering that countless people are forced to experience on a daily basis. Existing and getting through the day is a battle, but for me, it is worth waging. I hold a privileged position that I can use to create the change I want to see. Maybe for many a puzzling throughline to draw, but echoing Thompson, it is the tension between the two poles of restless idealism and a sense of impending doom that keeps me going.