Drug consumer par excellence, Hunter Thompson's legendary hallucinogenic and boozy escapades have by now been sufficiently documented, not to mention brought to pitch-perfect cinematic life by Terry Gilliam's 1998 adaptation of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Less well known, however, is his lifelong political conscientiousness, which receives the lion's share of attention in Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, Alex Gibney's (Taxi to the Dark Side, Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room) loving yet even-handed non-fiction bio of the notorious father of Gonzo journalism. Narrated by Johnny Depp (Gilliam's Fear and Loathing star), and overflowing with archival footage and interviews with friends and enemies, the film lays out the vital details of its subject's life, from his outcast adolescence in Louisville, Kentucky to his suicide in 2005. Comprehensiveness, however, isn't necessarily the goal, and thus while most prime topics are tackled, the greatest focus is paid to Thompson's failed attempt to run for sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado on a legalize-drugs platform, and his coverage of the 1972 presidential election, which resulted in the classic Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72.

After kick-starting things with begrudging praise from the Hells Angels (whom Thompson critically profiled in his maiden book), Gibney's doc quickly assumes a chronological format. Yet the wealth of anecdotes and stories presented -- such as the fact that he learned to write by repeatedly retyping The Great Gatsby, a critique of the rich that resonated with Thompson -- afford a substantial level of insight into a man who (as he would readily admit) was generous and kind, yet scary mean. Gonzo's portrait is given depth by the raft of talking heads (including his first wife, collaborator Ralph Steadman, George McGovern, and Tom Wolfe) who reminisce about their encounters with the writer, not only because their remembrances are informative and lively but because some of these fond recollections come from unlikely sources, such as Nixon staff member Pat Buchanan. That even adversaries are compelled to wax nostalgic about Thompson speaks to his unique firebrand individuality, and to its credit, Gibney's film - despite its obvious affectionate slant - isn't afraid to muck up its respectful tone with complicating and/or unpleasant voices.

Thompson's boundary-pushing rebellion against the status quo -in terms of prose as well as social opinions - is cast as inextricably tied up with his deep-seated anger at and love of guns. And his creative decline later in life, though only cursorily addressed, is linked to the wild popularity of his Gonzo persona, which eventually became something of a restrictive straitjacket. By tackling his professional and personal shortcomings (which also involved quite a bit of philandering), Gonzo sidesteps hagiography and, as such, lends weight to its reverence for the writer's antagonistic exceptionality and for his appraisal of the American Dream, which he viewed as under dire attack from cultural conservatives and corporate sleaze, both epitomized by Richard Nixon. Given Thompson's expressed disgust for George W. Bush, Gibney naturally parallels the writer's thoughts about the '70s and the present, though more intriguing than such juxtapositions is Thompson's penchant for wearing Nixon masks, an act in which association with the hated president revealed the writer's own recognition of (and closeness to) the disagreeable, corrupt side of his own personality.

At times merely conventional, the film truly finds its groove upon confronting Thompson's '72 reporting on the Oval Office race, in which his low profile - no one in political circles had a clue who he was - aided his journalistic coverage for Rolling Stone. A lifelong liberal, Thompson's mixture of fact and fiction sparked controversy (specifically with regards to fanciful comments about candidate Edmund Muskie's substance abuse). But his freewheeling, uncensored, pro-McGovern reportage had a fierce bluntness that Gonzo argues was incendiary and enlivening, even when (as Gary Hart comments) it was driven by infantile idealism. Gibney goes on to present Thompson's slow decline into hermit solitude at his Woody Creek, Colorado home, the debauchery that destroyed his first marriage, and his prophetic comments about the nation's future penned days after September 11. Yet ultimately, it was Thompson's coverage of McGovern's bid for the White House -- initially supportive and then, after the miscue of selecting Thomas Eagleton as a running mate, full of nasty criticism -- that epitomized the man, a literary iconoclast and less-than-stellar husband and father whose unbridled, go-for-broke excessiveness was both his greatest attribute and flaw.

For more on Gonzo, see James' Sundance review of the film, as well as his audio interview with Alex Gibney.