F. Scott Fitzgerald Died Here
by Ernie MannixThe first time I read “The Great Gatsby” I was transfixed. I could not believe an ordinary man had the ability to string together passages of words that could create such beautifully vivid and everlasting images in my brain. Even after seeing the movie, the pictures painted by that man’s pencil (indeed it was a pencil) onto my brain’s canvas simply trumped screenwriter Coppola’s best effort.
I was eighteen years old and almost embarrassed at the emotion this man brought out in me through a pulpy dog-eared page in a used paperback book. That orgiastic future was where he had me heading. That green light on the dock still twinkles in the Long Island summer night’s heat, and all I need to do to see it, is think about it.
The feelings you feel when you’re eighteen seem to carve a holding place, a cup for the emotions you will feel for the rest of your life. And apart from the birth of your kids and the true love of your life nothing in adulthood seems to be as scintillating as those early romantic thoughts. For me, F. Scott Fitzgerald set the feelings bar higher than anything I’d ever experienced before on the printed page. I love the man forever, for Fitzgerald gave me some of my greatest private moments.
I am extremely happy this man has a huge Hollywood hit movie now. Yes, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” was/is a Fitzgerald short story. But when he was here in human form, Hollywood was not as kind.
On his last trip to Hollywood (he was here three times), Fitzgerald once again brought his art along with his craft. The craft was traveling along like an old used car at that point, and the art was a nervous passenger. For it was not the chauffeured glamorous ride that he had started his career in.
He lived most of the time, just off Sunset in the modest apartment on Hayworth Avenue, where he labored away on a novel that promised to be as great as, or maybe even greater than “Gatsby.” It was called; “The Love of the Last Tycoon.” (Shortened soon thereafter in posthumous release as “The Last Tycoon.”)
The novel chronicles the workings of a brash young studio head, and the Hollywood machinery he put the pedal to. Monroe Stahr was to be the next Jay Gatsby. In the novel, no one is texting, carrying a Yoga mat or drinking green tea, but the romance and treacherous workings of the studio are as true, compelling and believable as some of the juicy commissary gossip leaks we all lend an ear to.
In short, “The Love of The Last Tycoon” is not dated; it will engage you and move you. You will be especially moved by disappointment at reaching the terrible page that bears the editor’s halting and cold note; “This is where the manuscript ends”. When I first read the book, it was quite jarring. After days of flying along with Fitzgerald’s characters, reaching this page was as if the grim reaper tapped me on the shoulder, with a reminder of our mysterious and unexpected human finality. Yes, unfortunately for Scott Fitzgerald and us, he never got to complete this novel and it remains now and forever his unfinished masterpiece.
Unlike the hero Stahr, there were no major triumphs in Hollywood for Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald did have his choice of assignments and was paid a fare wage, but ultimately came away with only a single screen credit: “Three Comrades” (1938). He simply couldn’t hand over his powerful thoughts and words to a committee for group processing. Fitzgerald’s triumph was in not conforming the art, and remaining the genius that Hollywood could never ever wrangle.
On December 21st, 1940, on North Hayworth Avenue at the age of just forty four; a giant of the human spirit left us. So when you go to see “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”, please think of the man that gave us so very much of himself. His art and genius deserve at least that.
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16 Comments
I used to live on Hayworth Avenue, just a stones throw away from his building. Right by where The Director’s Guild building is now. It was one of the selling points of the neighborhood at the time. Since then, WeHo has become quite trendy. Alas I moved away in the early 90’s.
Thank you for this wonderful article. I discovered Fitzgerald in my ‘younger and more vulnerable years’ and he has been in my heart for a long time. The green light will always twinkle with his magic.
Thank you for this tribute/remembrance. I shall have to do some re-reading. I’ll have much time to read during the ensuing four years.
read his short story The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and you will share his disgust with hollywood
At age twenty eight Fitzgerald had written the great American novel and was heading into the transition to film, and later TV, as the primary popular entertainment. His successors did little to preserve the literary medium in my opinion. Vonnegut, Heller, John Irving, all seem to me far more interested in themselves than their readers. Try to get traditional narrative on traditional subjects published today. You’ll find literary markets are for, and by left leaning academia.
What a magnificent post and especially a magnificent subject. Thanks man, this was a good read – Fitzgerald deserves all the praise and honor we can heap on him. What a great man, what a great author, what a great American.
Fitzgerald wasn’t the only literary giant who toiled in Hollywood. Aldous Huxley was another, and so was William Faulkner. Faulkner had more hits than the other two and seemingly got along better than they did. Of course, Faulkner’s books never did sell very well, so he worked in Hollywood for money. Fitzgerald’s first book was a massive hit, but his subsequent ones were not. He did make money writing short stories for magazines. But he had a lot of expenses (Zelda’s health) and he drank up the rest.
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