Lessons from the Godfather of Gonzo Journalism
Remembering Hunter S. Thompson when we need him most.
“This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it — that we are really just a nation of 220 million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable.” — Hunter S. Thompson, 1972
Gonzo: The Life And Work Of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson is about a hell of a lot of things. It’s about our fascination with the artist as heavy-drinking bohemian madman. It’s about the art of writing. It’s about political journalism. It’s about idealism. It’s about American partisanship. It’s about our obsession with celebrity. It’s about how sometimes the seemingly biggest and brashest personality in the room is the one most seeped in a soul-crushing sensitivity and unshakeable sadness over the human condition.
It was this weird, larger than life mix that made Dr. Hunter S. Thompson an inimitable American treasure. And he’s a reminder of just about everything that is missing in American journalism today.
Gonzo journalism is, in part, about being loud and opinionated in a profession that used to be defined by impartiality and objectivity. By that definition, lots of modern political pundits clearly imagine themselves worthy successors to the gonzo journalism mantle. Problem is, they’re trying a little too hard to claim it via style over substance. They’re also missing why and how Thompson did it nobly. Being loud and opinionated was just the window dressing in his storefront.
For starters, Thompson still cared about facts, and he went to great lengths to gather them. While his writing spiraled off in outlandish and whimsical directions, he still believed in the five W’s that, once upon a time, were sacred to journalism. Hunter provided the who, what, when and where — and then, most impressive of all, he went and lived the “why” like a badass. He didn’t learn about the Hell’s Angels by conducting an interview or two. He went on the road with them for a year, and eventually was beaten to a pulp by them — ironically after growing disenchanted by their violence. He followed Presidential candidates like George McGovern and Jimmy Carter on the campaign trail for long stretches of time. Hell, he even ran for office, in a mad bid to be the Sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado in 1969 — on the “Freak Power” ticket, no less.
His was an active, participatory journalism. He lived what he wrote about, which was why his stuff was the antithesis of modern content farm pabulum and mainstream media homogeny. He was reporting from the front lines, not from the comfort of a TV studio or a townhouse in a fashionable zip code.
By caring about the facts, his passion was never devoid of deep thinking. He struck a balance — however imperfect — between intellect and emotion.
He also bore witness to our descent into post-factual journalism during his last few years on earth. While reporting on the events of 9/11, he wrote:
“It is 24 hours later now, and we are not getting much information about the Five Ws of this thing. The numbers out of the Pentagon are baffling, as if Military Censorship has already been imposed on the media. It is ominous. The only news on TV comes from weeping victims and ignorant speculators.”
Of course, his “gonzo-ism” wasn’t confined to his writing style. It wasn’t merely a marketing ploy for his product. His invigorating brashness was genuine, and it smashed the wishy-washy liberal stereotype into smithereens. He reeked of Wild Turkey, not patchouli. He was a gun nut. He embraced patriotism — but he believed in an America that made room for everyone, not just the elite. He was a bleeding heart with balls and backbone and unapologetic swagger. There’s a lot of disappointment in modern journalism nowadays, and in modern liberal party leaders — both seemingly marked by passivity. In direct contrast, Thompson’s brand of liberalism (though he would reject the label) and journalism was not the “roll over and play dead” kind. He refused to be held back by decorum or political correctness, and he refused to be silent.
But an unfortunate byproduct of such wholeheartedness can be broken-heartedness. Thompson was committed to going the distance — and the distance eventually leads to the edge. As he once wrote, “The Edge…there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
Inevitably, caring so much — while seeing others seem to care so little, or do anything about what they claim to care about — becomes exhausting. In Gonzo, Thompson’s second wife, Anita Thompson, says “I did start to worry about him right after the Bush election. That I think was the trigger. He didn’t get angry, he got depressed. I could handle when he was angry or feisty or sulky — anything — but depressed or something, I wasn’t used to.”
And so, on February 20, 2005, Thompson committed suicide by shooting himself in the head.
This is the kind of guy we desperately need now — but he’s no longer here. But learning something from his legacy could be the best possible way to pay tribute to the man. Watching Gonzo is a great reminder about what modern journalism and modern liberals need to look like moving forward.
Watch Gonzo: The Life And Work Of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson on Tribeca Shortlist now.
