Between rages: Hunter S. Thompson strikes a calm pose in "Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson." (AP Photo/Magnolia Pictures)

In this undated image provided by Magnolia Pictures, Hunter S. Thompson is shown in a promotional photo from the film, "Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson." (AP Photo/Magnolia Pictures)

"Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson," the documentary about the journalist of the same name, is kind of depressing. Not because the famous writer and inventor of gonzo journalism shot himself with a .44-caliber gun in 2005. Not because the suicidal despair to which he succumbed was apparently caused by the condition of the United States today.

No, "Gonzo" is depressing because in showing life in the 1960s and 1970s -- the life that Thompson gleefully covered -- it gives us a good shot of exactly what lame, complacent phonies we are today.

Thompson, born in 1937 in Louisville, Ky., is one of the truly larger-than-life characters in the annals of American history. He got his start by copying F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" word for word.

Thompson caught the public eye and came into his own when he immersed himself in the outlaw motorcycle gang, Hell's Angels. From there, he covered political campaigns (and held a portion of the responsibility for making and breaking some of the candidates) and ran for sheriff of Pitkin County, Colo., on the Freak Power Party Ticket.

"Gonzo," directed by Alex Gibney and starring a slew of politicians (Jimmy Carter, George McGovern and a jovial Pat Buchanan), real-life movie stars (Johnny Depp reads some of Thompson's words; Jimmy Buffett talks about his relationship with the journalist) and Thompson himself (in archival footage), serves as a visual eulogy for the writer.

That's apropos, considering the film ends with footage of Thompson's 2005 funeral, when a 150-foot cannon, shaped in the writer's two-thumbed fist logo, shot off his ashes during a ceremony of explosions and celebrities (Depp, Sean Penn and Lyle Lovett were in attendance). Gibney obviously likes his subject; although this is a warts-and-all documentary, Thompson probably gets off a little lightly.

His first wife, Sandra Thompson, had to call a sheriff when she announced that she needed a divorce. When a deputy arrived and asked if Hunter had any guns, Sandra replied, "Yes, 22 of them, and every one is loaded."

The film winds down a little abruptly, and some of the unproductive, post-divorce, gong-shooting later days are skimmed over.

But Gibney's coverage of Thompson's heyday, the Haight-Ashbury scene and the rebelliousness of the 1960s on the West Coast, are lovingly dealt with.

Gibney splices in scenes from Terry Gilliam's film adaptation of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and actual footage from Thompson and Oscar Acosta's search for the American Dream -- and its death in Las Vegas.

Thompson emerges as a sort of hero on the campaign trail (when he produced "Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail") and finds himself becoming more of a star than his subjects.

"Gonzo" is a celebration of a man for whom things never got weird enough. It's a celebration of baby boomer culture and, for those who choose to emulate it, blueprints. No one will accuse this documentary of shaking our political climate or cultural scene out of the boring wasteland that they have become, but at least "Gonzo" gives audiences pause to remember how things were, and how one man chose to remember them.