An English Teacher's Review of The Great Gatsby (2013)

 

   Over the weekend I saw the new Baz Luhrmann 3-D interpretation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Having taught that novel for twenty+ years, I know most of its lines by heart. Did I mention it's one of my favorites? I've also viewed the '74 film starring Robert Redford probably forty times in my classroom. Make no mistake--I love Robert Redford. That '74 film, however, is ponderous and, at times, poorly directed, but it stuck with the book and its 1920's music is haunting..."What'll I do when you are far away and I am blue---what'll I do?" Love that music. So it was with great skepticism that I watched the new film version.
     I won't summarize the story since you probably know it if you're reading this post. I will say that the English teacher in me has mixed feelings about the film, but the movie-goer in me would still recommend it as intriguing entertainment.
     If you can survive the frenetic, high-on-steroids,

first half of the film, you'll like the second half better as a reader of the book. Luhrmann is giving us a 2013 interpretation of the novel and that means a modern soundtrack that will appeal to the 20-something crowd. I didn't mind the music. His take on 21st century consumerism, invasive media, and scandal-worshipping masses is in-your-face obvious and certainly true of the 20's also. But he would have been wiser to cut back on the parties and concentrate more on the human tragedy at the core of the story.
     The film has two parts and the mood totally changes with the dinner party at the Buchannan's. Where Luhrmann truly succeeds is in showing the illusion and artifice Gatsby has created to win Daisy Fay Buchannan back. His entire life, his false history, and his house are stylish conjurer's tricks, as fake as the unread and uncut books in his library. I wasn't sure I'd like Leonardo DiCaprio as Gatsby, but I thought he was amazing. He captured both the self-confidence and swagger of the character and also his desperation as he sees his dream falling apart. He is a glittering illusion and a handsome and charming one at that.

George and Myrtle Wilson are well done and definitely capture the characters as I pictured them. Daisy, played by Carey Mulligan, is the glittering embodiment of Gatsby's dreams--but other than that, she fades into the scenery. In the novel and earlier film I found her annoying, but she didn't strike me at all in this film. I was not impressed by Tobey Maguire as Nick, but he drew a difficult part to play. He is too muted. His joy at believing in Gatsby and his eventual disillusionment with the whole situation are played on a middle scale without sharp edges.

Three key points were left out--pieces that would have made the tragedy more compelling. Two scenes done with great tension are the dinner party at the Buchannan's and the following scene in a New York City hotel.

The '74 film

In the novel, Daisy introduces her daughter, Pammy, at the dinner. This is Gatsby's first indication that perhaps he can't erase five years. A child is a concrete example of why his dream is doomed. Pammy never appeared at the dinner in the Luhrmann film.
     The second disappearance from book to film was the visit by James Gatz's (Jay Gatsby) father from Minnesota. In the novel Nick has to make all the funeral arrangements because there is no one else. Gatsby's father shows up and confirms for Nick that all of Gatsby's story about his real past is true, including his childhood yearnings to be successful and rich. Henry Gatz accompanies Nick to the funeral where only a few people--mostly servants--attend, revealing how lonely and superficial Gatsby's life really was. It was all about his quest for Daisy. Luhrmann chose instead to eliminate this scene and emphasize the paparrazi pushing each other around Gatsby's casket at the funeral home.
     The last scene--a pivotal one--Luhrmann left out was Nick's meeting on Fifth Avenue with Tom and Daisy the following October after Gatsby's death. Nick finally realizes their shallow lives, their egotism, and their carelessness, and he can't forgive them for their parts in the death of Gatsby and his dream.
     All three of these omissions would have made the tragedy deeper, but Luhrmann chose to leave them out. They bring the reader to Gatsby's side with Nick, but Luhrmann's film is devoid of emotional ties with the characters and is filled instead with the Hollywood version of the 20's.
     Luhrmann added a frame that bothered me at first. Nick is telling--then typing--his story from a sanitarium. While I'd dispute the doctor's diagnosis that Nick is an alcoholic and suffers from mental illness, I did eventually like the reminder that he--Nick Carraway--is truly the narrator of the story. We see it through his eyes. Even Fitzgerald's words occasionally appear and fall off the screen as Nick types them. It is through Nick that we understand the tragedy of Jay Gatsby, and although it's a controversial aspect of the movie, I liked the frame.

Overall I'd recommend The Great Gatsby as a 21st century re-telling of the story. Even as an English teacher who loves the novel, I found the new film entertaining.




     

Revisiting The Great Gatsby

     A little over a year ago I published a post on Fitzgerald's book, The Great Gatsby. This weekend a new film version of the book is coming out to much fanfare and hype. Yes, I plan to see it with some skepticism since I have seen so many wonderful classic books totally demolished by Hollywood. But I will give it a chance. I will even give Leonardo a chance despite my memory of Robert Redford in that title role. In celebration of the new interest in Fitzgerald and Gatsby, I am reprinting the blog I wrote with a few tweaks. Next week I'll post my review of the new film. Warning: if you are one of the few people who didn't read this book--or the Cliffs Notes--in high school, this blog post has spoilers.

March 12, 2012:

... A classic novel with layers of meaning, The Great Gatsby is well worth an adult read because it beautifully describes the human yearning to make dreams come true, often at a terrible price. It also examines the nostalgia for a time remembered and the desire to repeat that long ago memory. And-bonus- it contains only nine compact and enchantingly written chapters.
     In his novel Fitzgerald attempts to answer two questions about the nature of humans: Can you repeat the past? Can you plan and work hard-no matter what means you use-to make your dreams come true?
     The very first time narrator Nick Carroway observes the mysterious Jay Gatsby, he actually sees a shadow, a silhouette of a man, arms stretched out in the darkness toward a green light at the end of Daisy Buchanan's dock.

Beyond that dock live Daisy and her husband, Tom Buchanan, members of the inherited money class, careless people who smash their way through life with total ambivalence toward the feelings of others. Nevertheless, Gatsby remembers Daisy as the golden girl, the love of his life when he first left for WWI. Gatsby believes it is their destiny to be together. Can they repeat the past and make life again contain the innocent love they once had? Can Gatsby climb up those stairs to the world of wealth and privilege to attract Daisy's attention?

Meyer Wolfsheim, Nick Carroway, and Gatsby

      Piece by piece the truth of Gatsby's background comes together in a story woven of fairy dust. He actually came from nothing but had the enormous imagination and determination to remake himself into a glamorous image of weath in order to catch the attention of his former love, Daisy. The story constantly juxtaposes the question of whether, in the corrupt 1920s, a person can actually follow the American Dream of lifting himself up from a poor past to become a success.

Is that dream still possible or has it been defiled by what America has become by the 1920s--a world of gangsters, corrupt politicians, and people of influence with dubious values? Gatsby's will alone pushes him relentlessly on his quest for his lost love. In that plan he surrounds himself by the new rich of the Twenties, scandalous people who had been in prison, bootlegged alcohol, and killed people. But they aid him in his climb to reach the rich, well-guarded plateau that was Daisy's world.
     Can innocence be regained in the morally corrupt world that is America in the Twenties? Can Fitzgerald's rapturous descriptions of perfect love and wonderous dreams live again? 

     In the end, Nick Carroway--the narrator of the story--is left to explain that America was a dream of the old sailors who first discovered her pristine, green, untouched world, and they realized that this New World could become a place of great promise and dreams. By the Twenties, however, reality has changed that dream into a place of moral corruption and hopelessness beneath its Coney Island facade. Gatsby did not realize that sometimes the very best of human yearnings get smashed in the very worst of human nature.
     The Great Gatsby is a literary classic and, as such, causes the reader to consider the nature of his own time. "Classic" means a reader also sees new ideas he didn't discern with the first reading. If you haven't picked up a copy of Fitzgerald's book lately, think about doing so. It's well worth your time.

...and Back Again

"You drive twenty-six hours? Are you crazy?"
     This is the universal reaction of people who hear that I spend the winter in Phoenix, the rest of the year in Illinois, and drive instead of fly. I generally rent furnished houses in Phoenix, and I drive so I can load up my car with my three-month necessities (especially books) and have that car to drive while I'm out there. The bottom line is really this: an unremarkable trip back and forth is important. Rarely has that happened, especially when you can't trust Mother Nature.
     The first year, two friends and I drove through a massive dust storm between Tucson and Phoenix that resulted in a 28-car pileup just ahead of us with multiple injuries and several deaths. The decision to stop for lunch caused us to avoid that horrible accident. Those friends, strangely, have not volunteered to drive with me again. I've also driven in the mountains in sleet storms and across Kansas in wind, rain, hail, and snow (I am trying to avoid Kansas in the future. Sorry, any Kansas residents, including my friends Dave, Sue, and former resident, Ruth.) Usually I drive with a friend or with one of my adult children. Frankly, having a friend to talk with and help drive (or an adult child that you don't get to see very much because he has children responsibilities) is wonderful.

     This year one of my friends--Eileen--agreed to the ultimate sacrifice: she flew into Mesa, got off the plane, into my car, and we left--just two senior citizens with twenty-six hours of road time.
     I used to drive through Flagstaff to get out of Arizona but it's iffy in the spring for snow. I've also driven to Tucson and across Texas because of bad weather to the north. This year the weather was encouraging. That rarely happens.
     Leaving the Mesa Airport, we bypassed Flagstaff and went north through the picturesque towns of Show Low and Snowflake. The mountain roads are twisty and the scenery is gorgeous--sheer cliffs, rivers down below, majestic rock formations, and blue skies. We stopped in Show Low for dinner and got out of the mountains before it became dark. 

Leaving Arizona, we waved at the sign and headed into New Mexico. Now the majesty ends and the winds begin. I have never driven across this state without wind squalls blowing across me or in my wake. Gallup is just across the western border of New Mexico and we stayed there for the night.
     The following day was the killer on time: four-lane clear across New Mexico, the panhandle of Texas, and the western half of Oklahoma. (I am so glad I am not doing this on two-lane route 66.) Not much in the way of towns in those areas except Albuquerque and

Amarillo. Texas is the tumbleweed capitol of the world and we only crossed the panhandle. Believe me, I've driven north and south in Texas and I've seen the western half, which appears to consist of trailer parks, dust, salvaging operations, and, oh yes, high school football fields. My atlas has so many Texas routes marked in various directions that it's a mass of colored marker. Last year, my younger son and I stopped in north Texas because of tornadoes in Oklahoma. But this year all was calm and we pushed on into green, green, Oklahoma, heading for Oklahoma City for the night.

     

We decided to take the route I had taken driving out to Phoenix, an itinerary chosen by my older son, remembering his geometry. Avoiding Kansas, we headed out from Oklahoma City the last day and turned north through Tulsa and into Missouri. That decision might seem strange, but we had good roads driving out to Phoenix.

The interstate took us through Springfield and then we drove north to Lebanon, Missouri, where we abandoned the four-lane and turned onto route 54. That route has lots of passing lanes and it took us through Jefferson City until we picked up route 19 to Hannibal.
     Now we were in territory Eileen knew like the back of her hand: she grew up in Quincy, just a hop, skip, and jump from Mark Twain territory. We were on the home stretch.

     The green grass of the Midwest was a sharp contrast to the dusty desert of Arizona, but it was a green I recognized. And--bonus--it would take a few days for the humidity to catch up with my arthritis. We were back in tiny Monmouth by that evening: two and a half days and 1500+ miles on the road.
     Home.
     (Sigh.)

The Snowbird Life

Now that I'm about to head back to Illinois from Arizona, I should answer the question people ask me most about winter travel: What's it like to live away from home for three months, especially in a desert rather than in the snowy and cold Midwest?

Aerial photo of Phoenix

It may be easier to use some photographs. Years ago when my oldest child moved to Phoenix, I'd fly via Chicago/Denver/Sky Harbor Airport to visit Arizona. It took a whole day and three difference planes. What I remember most from that trip was the first sight of the city at night, a gorgeous panorama that suddenly came into view once we flew over the mountains surrounding the Valley of the Sun. I'm not sure I will ever forget that blazing panorama. 

   The most visible and memorable landmark by day or night was South Mountain because my son and his wife lived near the base of the mountain. They still do today, and on the mountain is a plaque commemorating their daughter, Gwen, who died several years ago. They often climbed the mountain together.

     Renting a house, learning to drive on the freeways, and finding interesting places have occupied many of my thoughts over the past four years when I actually have lived in Phoenix during the winter.

     In those years I've rented three different houses.

The most recent one looks like this and is located in an area of South Phoenix known as Ahwatukee.  It's in a small, gated part of the city near great shopping, restaurants, movie theatres, book stores, and a library. This is what I see (below) when I leave my house in the morning.

Unlike home, I know none of my neighbors, but the whole area is racially diverse and the car license plates come from multiple states as well as Canadian provinces. It feels like a safe area and I don't worry about crime. The neighborhood has its own pool and the landscaping is handled by the homeowner's association.

    The most complicated problem has been learning to drive in a city of a million and a half. Each year I've

driven my own car out and back with a variety of friends and family members. I've become an expert at packing for a three-month visit and filling my car trunk and back seat. I have it down to a science. We've driven through snow storms, sleet, and a huge dust storm that almost did me in. But somehow we have made it through a variety of routes.

     The first two winters in Phoenix I mostly used the surface streets, venturing out on "The Ten" only occasionally. Now, however, I'm quite comfortable using the freeways. The 202 takes me east and west and the 10 or 101 take me north and south. This is the scene (above)as I head toward the 202 from my house. It's only two blocks away. 

   

 At first the overhead ramps and traffic seemed a bit daunting. But now I'm used to driving up and over just about anything. Because Phoenix is a city of freeways, I use four times more gasoline here than I use in my tiny town.            

              

     Some of the places I frequent the most are the

Chandler Mall

grocery store (10 minutes away), the Poisoned Pen Bookstore in Scottsdale (30 min), and the Chandler Mall (15 min.)
     Phoenix has wonderful restaurants, shopping, and winter weather, and it's hard to leave those joys to go back to the Midwest to a small town. However, despite missing my children and grandchildren in far off Phoenix, I feel that small town is home.

Winter in the Desert

     I loved growing up in the Midwest and raising my children there.

     The winters, however, were another story.
     Extreme cold, broken pipes, ice on sidewalks and roads, snowstorms that kept people stuck inside until someone could plow them out, and power outages were not pleasant. Sometimes they were downright scary. In fact, the weather-related cancellations of events made life uncertain. The worst time I can remember was the weekend of my father's funeral in a February. A huge snow and ice storm blanketed the Midwest, my power went out for three days, and my children and small grandchildren were stuck in airports all over the country trying to get home. After that experience, I vowed that if I could live in a warm place in the winter, I would.

Phoenix has gorgeous sunsets. I'm told it's the dust.

     It helped that all my children eventually ended up in the Phoenix, Arizona area. They remembered those winters too. I knew I raised smart kids.
     Now I sit at my computer in January and I can hear the plop-plop of rain failing outside the window. I don't mind it at all and am struck by the irony of the current weather map where no precipitation is happening anywhere else on the US map. Phoenix, today, is the precipitation capital of the country. Amazing! In all the years I have lived here or visited, I have not seen rain like this. The early traffic report has numerous accidents since Phoenix roads are not made to handle lots of rain and people aren't used to driving in it. We are setting a Phoenix record for rain today.

     Living in Arizona in the winter and having friends back in Illinois is like being in a different universe. Unless I see the snowstorms on television, I'm not aware of what is going on in the middle of the country. The first winter I lived in Phoenix I was in awe of every morning when the sun came streaming in the windows and the skies were always blue. The gray, Illinois skies were a thing of the past. As one of my parents said on a visit one time, "It doesn't seem like a place where people should live. No character-building from rugged winters or wet, soggy springs. Sunshine every day just isn't natural."  Perhaps correct, but I'm getting used to it!

     Driving is interesting in Phoenix. Back in Illinois I can drive across my entire town in about ten minutes. In Phoenix I spend three times the money on gas compared to back home. It is a city of freeways. The first winter I spent in the city, I drove mostly on the surface roads because the freeways were daunting. The second winter I ventured out on the freeways occasionally, but I always felt like I should pray before leaving the entrance ramp with a green light indicating I could go. Now I drive on the freeways most days and it has become quite ordinary. Even rush hour traffic is do-able.
     I have threatened to live with each of my three children one month a winter. I know, however, that this plan would be cruel and unusual punishment for all of us. So I rent a house, and so far I have lived in three different houses out of four winters. That experience is always a challenge, filled with surprises. This year the plumbing under the kitchen sink flooded the floor, the refrigerator had a cracked part that flooded the kitchen floor, the smoke alarms [five of them] signaled a squawking low battery sound [always at night], and no one had changed a dead light bulb in years. I had my work cut out for me. Lately, no strange noises and no floods. Ah, peace and quiet.

     Even more satisfying is meeting former students and friends from back home for lunch. It is amazing how many Illinois people live in Phoenix. In fact, I have yet to meet anyone, anywhere in Phoenix, who has lived here for all of his or her life. They are often from Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois, or Nebraska. When I tell them I am from Illinois, they assume I am from Chicago or the suburbs. I guess downstate does not exist in the minds of non-Illinoisans..or, actually, in the minds of Chicago natives.
     The rain is starting to slow down and the gentle patter of it on the window and rocks in the yard is stopping. Another "terrible storm" is over in the Valley of the Sun.