INDIANAPOLIS -- The grave of Depression-era gangster John Dillinger is seeing a surge of visitors at its Indianapolis cemetery days before the opening of a new film that stars Johnny Depp as the man considered by some to be an American Robin Hood.

The hype surrounding "Public Enemies," which opens in theaters Wednesday, is boosting the stream of visitors to Dillinger's grave, said Crown Hill Cemetery president Keith Norwalk. More than 100 people have perused Dillinger's grave in recent days.

Norwalk said that on the day Dillinger was buried, tens of thousands of people lined the outside of the cemetery.

The grave has long been the top attraction at the cemetery, where President Benjamin Harrison and "Little Orphan Annie" poet James Whitcomb Riley were also laid to rest.

"We're on the fourth marker for his grave. In former years, people would come and chip off corners," Norwalk said.

The Dillinger family plot had belonged to the family 27 years prior to John's death in 1934, and his mother and grandparents were already buried there.

Dillinger, who was born in Indianapolis and lived in nearby Mooresville, was declared Public Enemy No. 1 by law enforcement after a string of bank robberies across the Midwest.

He escaped from a northern Indiana jail in March 1934 as he awaited trial on charges that he killed a police officer during a Chicago bank robbery. He was shot to death by FBI agents outside a Chicago theater on July 22, 1934, before he could face trial.

Dillinger had become something of a Robin Hood for some Americans who had lost their savings when banks failed during the Great Depression, and federal agents narrowly missed capturing him several times.

"Dillinger always seemed to speak to an older generation, but today with the movie coming out with Johnny Depp, he's really gained in his notoriety and recognition from all generations," Norwalk said.

Dillinger's casket was lowered into the ground three days after his death, amid stormy weather that, The Indianapolis Star wrote, unleashed "blinding flashes of lighting and deafening fusillades of thunder."

About 5,000 people attended the funeral and some ravaged the site after the burial, taking flowers and even scoops of mud. Dillinger's father later had his son's coffin reburied under a thick layer of concrete and iron.

On a recent morning, Jodi Compton, a 65-year-old retiree from Hoopeston, Ill., stood above Dillinger's 3-foot-tall gravestone, quietly crying.

"I've wanted to come up here for so long. I read so much about him, but this is putting the lid on it. This is the final thing to do," she said, running her hand over the smooth granite headstone adorned with a red rose left by another visitor. "My heart goes out to this man."