FILM GONZO: THE LIFE AND WORK OF DR. HUNTER S THOMPSON DIRECTOR ALEX GIBNEY

Classic Scene: Alex Gibney’s
Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson (2008)


American journalist and author Hunter S. Thompson’s hatred for president Richard Nixon was well known, but his dealings with and regard for Patrick Buchanan — Nixon’s special consultant, White House speechwriter in the late sixties and throughout much of the Watergate scandal, and staunch conservative — were surprisingly productive and healthy. When he approached Buchanan in 1974 about a piece on the future of American conservatism for Rolling Stone magazine, Thompson mentioned having a “certain twisted sympathy for your (personal) stance — if only because of what strikes me as its basic integrity, along with a stylistic brutality that I can appreciate”. Buchanan politely declined, but in his own written reply he joked: “Tell your liberal friends we expect to be treated with all the deference and respect as outlined in the Geneva Conventions on the handling of prisoners of war”.¹ Clearly the two enjoyed a good rapport.

Alex Gibney’s splendid documentary Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson appears to dismiss Buchanan somewhat as a “half crazed Davie Crockett” figure (a phrase Hunter once used to describe him), but at the close of the film something quite wonderful happens. Speaking highly of Hunter’s political acumen in a soundbite which seems to bemoan his egotism, Pat’s interview is interrupted by the roar of a motorcycle in the street forcing the production team to pause momentarily until its fade on the soundtrack. Glancing over at Gibney, who is behind camera, Buchanan loses his composure — “That’s fitting!” he laughs, and with that his interview is complete. The motorcycle sound may have been amplified by the filmmakers in postproduction, but they observed and captured the moment passively, without fakery or re-enactment. Like the cinema of Werner Herzog then, Gibney’s documentary finds meaning through serendipity, discovery and timing. And in its positioning at the very end of the documentary, the scene reminds the viewer of the outlaw biker of Big Sur: Hunter, as phantom, pulling down the foundations of American conservatism and tearing through the rhetoric of modern political discourse.

¹ From, Fear and Loathing in America, The Brutal Odyssey of an Outlaw Journalist, 1968-1976, (ed.) Douglas Brinkley 2000. Bloomsbury Publishing, pp. 573-74, p. 587.
12 December, 2009

Hunter S. Thompson in his home in Woody Creek, Colorado

FILM GRIZZLY MAN DIRECTOR WERNER HERZOG


A MOMENT OF CHAOS
IN WERNER HERZOG’S
‘GRIZZLY MAN’ (2005)



In the aftermath, Timothy Treadwell brings his camera down to the scene of the fight

For ten seconds or so the adversaries circle cautiously and adjust their posturing so that when all hell breaks loose neither animal will be disadvantaged. And it happens quickly: a mighty wrestling contest, savage and scrappy

Timothy Treadwell — the wildlife activist who documented his dangerous but profoundly affecting interactions with the grizzly bears of Alaska’s Katmai National Park and Reserve in over a hundred hours of footage (and who was killed-in-action in his thirteenth season) — is filming on a beach. The opening shot of a bear nicknamed “Mickey” (Treadwell’s affection for names and soliloquy is oddly endearing) is juxtaposed with the final delicate moments of a from-the-heart confessional, conducted by Herzog himself, in which he cautions Treadwell’s ex-girlfriend never to play the actual wild-track audio recording, which he holds in his hand, of Treadwell’s death. From stark alarmist warning, then, to seemingly banal documentary footage, Herzog’s film leaps a crevasse thematically and in terms of tone.

Treadwell’s footage now plays without cuts or authorial mediation and it is mesmerising. Two giant male grizzlies, one (Sergeant Brown) outstretched in the sand like a cat and the other (Mickey) ambling not a few metres away (between them a seagull or two), fight over a mate. For ten seconds or so the adversaries circle cautiously and adjust their posturing so that when all hell breaks loose neither animal will be disadvantaged. And it happens quickly: a mighty wrestling contest, savage and scrappy. Their jaws lock, manoeuvring to clamp onto chunks of neck; fur is spat onto the beach in clumps, shit falls from their weakened behinds; kicking, stabbing legs. You have probably never seen anything quite like this.

Herzog says midway through his documentary: “I believe the common denominator of the universe is not harmony, but chaos, hostility, and murder.” The scene has a gravity far more impressive and affecting than Herzog’s staged interviews with sympathetic friends or Treadwell’s own (rather self-serving) stabs at sentimentalism in multiple vignettes (for instance, a scene in which he finds a dismembered bear cub’s arm, or the carcass of a fox he was fond of). Of all the things that Treadwell could be (surfer, TV actor, recovering addict, mythmaker, tragic failure or as David Denby suggests in his Loners article for The New Yorker (8 August 2005) “washout” even), in this moment he is simply a video operator documenting an incredible encounter. And it feels like chaos.


26 October, 2007