No Fear

      In the beginning -- the beginning of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream," that is -- gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson was waiting for the drugs to kick in.
      Somewhere around Barstow, Calif., they did.
      But that was 1971. This is 1997.
      And me, I'm waiting for the next hit of air conditioning.
      Every so often, a tantalizing blast of cool air escapes -- whenever the doors to the Stardust casino open, discharging more tourists who squeeze in along the porte-cochere sidewalk, between the valet parking stand and the taxi line.
      Like me, they're also waiting for "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" -- the movie, which is scheduled to start location shooting this stifling, muggy Sunday night. ("Fear and Loathing" is expected to be on location here for at least another week.)
      Some people have been waiting 25 years for this momentous occasion. Some people have been waiting 25 minutes.
      And some people aren't quite sure what they're waiting for.
      But they've spotted a sign inside the casino that reads, "NOTICE: We are filming in this area. If you are in view of the cameras, we will consider this your permission to be filmed."
      So they head outside to see more, including a giant clown's head set up at the casino entrance: a demented Bozo look-alike with a flashing red nose and bloodshot eyes spinning out of control. Red light bulbs form its frizzy hair; bright white bulbs outline its pointy teeth. Death's-head clown statues with demonic grins and demented eyes stand guard nearby.
      Across the traffic lanes under the porte-cochere, there's a statue of a snarling gorilla looking like an escapee from the Circus Circus menagerie just up the Strip.
      In a way, it is.
      Back in 1971, when Thompson wrote "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," he and his faithful traveling companion Oscar Zeta Acosta shared some particularly crazed adventures at Circus Circus.
      In the movie version, however, a fictional casino called the Bazooka Palace will stand in for Circus Circus. And tonight, the Stardust is playing the role of the Bazooka.
      But while the movie's crew sets up the first shot of the night, the Stardust's real life continues.
      Taxis discharge passengers. Bellhops juggle luggage. Airport shuttles make their rounds. Parking valets direct traffic.
      And a white Cadillac pulls up and waits.
      Could this be the fabled White Whale that serves as Thompson and Acosta's Vegas chariot? (That is, after they dumped their rented Chevy, better known as the Great Red Shark.)
      No, this white Cadillac has personalized California license plates of a far more recent vintage. Besides, its taillights don't even suggest the possibility of vestigial fins.
      But a '70s-leftover gold Plymouth Valiant with a decrepit white vinyl top and crunched left headlight?
      Now we're getting somewhere. Maybe even somewhere close to the start of shooting.
      We must be. Some crew members screw new light bulbs into the faux Bozo's fiery red fringe. Others explain proper set etiquette to the throng of bystanders.
      "Do not take any flash photos -- in fact do not take any photos at all, because they'll ruin the shot," one production assistant lectures solemnly. "And no videotaping."
      Several minutes later, another pleads with the crowd to move further away from the action.
      "It would really, really help us a lot if you could move over there on that grassy patch," he pleads. "Move down, all the way down."
      Onlookers dutifully shuffle a few feet south, then inch back to their original positions as soon as he turns away.
      "Where's Johnny Depp?" one observer wonders.
      After all, they can't start without him -- because Johnny Depp is playing Thompson. Or, more precisely, Raoul Duke, the alias Thompson uses while he and Acosta scam their way from Glitter Gulch to the Strip in search of "Free Enterprise. The American Dream. Horatio Alger gone mad on drugs in Las Vegas."
      Could that be Depp in the tan polyester jacket and flared pants and silvery cowboy boots? The wild-eyed, wild-haired man with the moustache?
      No, but it could be Benicio Del Toro, who's playing Dr. Gonzo, alias Oscar Acosta.
      Granted, the tall, thin Del Toro's Acosta doesn't look much like the 300-pound Samoan madman Thompson describes.
      Then again, the delicate-featured Depp seems a bit of a stretch as Thompson. Yet there he is, decked out in a brown camouflage fishing hat and multicolored patchwork jacket -- both of which clash deliriously with his black-and-gold checked pants, and white tennis shoes.
      Moving next to Depp, Del Toro hands him what looks like a folded American flag. Depp places it to his nose and inhales deeply.
      It must be ether time.
      "Ah, devil ether -- a total body drug," Thompson writes. "The mind recoils in horror, unable to communicate with the spinal column. The hands flap crazily, unable to get money out of the pocket ..."
      Obviously, they're rehearsing that magical moment when Thompson and Acosta first arrive at Circus Circus -- oops, the Bazooka Palace.
      Casino lights pulsating all around them, Depp and Del Toro stagger toward the giant clown's open mouth in slow motion, their body language reflecting the insidious effects of what Thompson calls "the perfect drug for Las Vegas."
      The beat-up gold Valiant pulls up, prompting a clown-faced parking valet -- attired in Day-Glo orange and green, a mod orange beret perched atop his blond corkscrew curls -- to assist a costumed extra wearing an orange shift minidress and white go-go boots. (Not that go-go boots were still in style in 1971, but Vegas tourists are notorious for being hopelessly behind the fashion curve.)
      To complete the surrealistic scene, speakers pump out a little circus mood music, from the "Rocky and Bullwinkle" theme to Leon Russell's "Tightrope."
      In character, Depp and Del Toro try out their slow-motion, under-the-influence-of-ether approach, then swiftly turn and join director Terry Gilliam in the shadow of the snarling gorilla.
      In 1971, when Thompson and Acosta were fearing and loathing in Las Vegas, Gilliam was the sole American member of the soon-to-be-legendary British comedy troupe Monty Python's Flying Circus, creating wildly imaginative animated sequences for their television show.
      All these years later, he's making the movie many others tried -- and failed -- to get off the ground. (Martin Scorsese and Jack Nicholson, Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi are among those whose "Fear and Loathing" adaptations crashed and burned.)
      Now, fledgling Rhino Films has succeeded in launching "Fear and Loathing" at a reported budget of about $21 million.
      But it was a rocky takeoff, with Gilliam replacing writer-director Alex Cox -- and his script -- only a few months ago before shooting began.
      Universal Pictures is expected to release "Fear and Loathing" at the start of the annual summer blockbuster frenzy next May.
      "This could be a very big film -- possibly the most successful counterculture movie of all time," Rhino Films head Stephen Nemeth predicts in a telephone interview. "The stamp of a major studio is acknowledging that we're onto something."
      Exactly what they're onto won't be known for many months.
      But what they're up to on this first night of shooting is easy to see: more of same, as Depp, Del Toro and Gilliam regroup after each take to further refine the scene.
      During the discussions, Del Toro beats on his chest like an amateur King Kong. Gilliam grabs the gorilla's lower jaw, demonstrating a move to Depp. Gilliam jogs in place, then jumps as if his legs were on springs. Depp jogs in place as Del Toro joins him for another make-believe ether inhalation.
      "OK, here we go -- stand by," a crew member intones as Gilliam takes his place with the camera crew facing Depp and Del Toro.
      The snap of a clapper board calls actors and crew members to attention.
      "Quiet, please -- we're rolling," the assistant director calls. "And ... action!"
      Gilliam and the camera crew members tiptoe backwards. Depp and Del Toro lurch forward toward the gap-mouthed clown head, Del Toro desperately grasping his trousers in a vain attempt to get his legs to work properly.
      "Left, Benny ... stay there. Now move on forward," Gilliam coaxes him. "Wonderful."
      But not according to some of the assembled observers, who weigh in with their reactions after the cry of "Cut!" signals the end of the take.
      "He doesn't look drunk -- he's not doing a very good job," one woman reacts to Depp's rolling, stoned slow-motion stagger.
      "OK, that was exciting," one Australian-accented voice drawls sarcastically as several onlookers head back inside the air-conditioned casino -- or down the sidewalk -- in search of a livelier scene.
      "Looks like a bunch of rejects from the '60s," one of them scoffs, stomping back into the casino. "Boring."
      So much for the magical glamour of movie making.
      Or maybe it's just Las Vegas.
      "A little bit of this town goes a very long way," Thompson writes. "After five days in Vegas you feel like you've been here for five years."
      It hasn't even been five minutes for some "Fear and Loathing" watchers. But however long it's been, it's been too long.