In 1924 while shooting a film in New York, actress Patsy Ruth Miller (1904-1995) developed a close friendship with author F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda. Frequently, Fitzgerald and Patsy Ruth would go out for dinner while Zelda remained home pleading fatigue. Patsy Ruth eventually realized that Zelda’s fatigue was acute alcoholism.

Observes Patsy Ruth:

It didn’t seem to me that Scott drank more than most of the men I knew. He seemed intoxicated on words, and sometimes we would sit, our after-dinner coffee growing cold, while Scott tried to make me see some fine point of writing, or understand why an emotion had been ill or well portrayed. But often I had the feeling that he was unsure of himself as a writer, that he was afraid of that one day he’d have nothing left to say, and I also had the impression that Zelda did little to build his confidence, even sometimes, in a perverse way, seemed to enjoy his battle with self-doubt.

Fitzgerald’s agonies of self-doubt are common among writers. The fear of having nothing left to say will, inevitably, be paralyzing. And a non-supportive spouse can act as a fatal poison to a vulnerable writer. Most witnesses observe that Fitzgerald was an alcoholic by the time he attended Princeton. There is no doubt that by the time he landed in Hollywood he was a hopeless drunk. It’s a measure of how common was alcoholism in early Hollywood that Patsy Ruth didn’t think Fitzgerald’s intake was all that unusual.

A future O’Henry Award winning writer, Patsy Ruth Miller, in her juicy memoir, My Hollywood: When Both of Us Were Young, narrates a fascinating anecdote that took place a few years later when a shaky Fitzgerald was under contract at MGM.

At the time, Patsy Ruth Miller was married to the great screenwriter John Lee Mahin, director Victor Fleming’s frequent collaborator.

John often saw Scott at MGM, where they were both working, and told me that Scott seemed very despondent. I said that was only natural, with Zelda in a sanatorium, but John said, No, that wasn’t it. He was writing a screenplay based on someone else’s story and hated his assignment. Then why does he do it? I asked. Money, I suppose, said John, but it’s a damn shame.

In truth, Fitzgerald never mastered the craft of the screenwriting, and in the tense, sink or swim factory atmosphere in which studio screenwriters labored, the master novelist’s confidence level was further undermined. Most authors idealize themselves as romantic artists. But the best, most productive screenwriters—then as now—understand that they are well-paid craftsmen working in collaboration with scores of highly talented people. Sadly, Fitzgerald never came to grips with the rigid studio system, established by Irving G. Thalberg, in which the producer was the final authority.

Remarks Patsy Ruth on Fitzgerald’s bleak state of mind:

I finally ran into Scott one day at the studio where I had gone to pick up John. It was true, he did seem to have less sparkle, less animation, than he had in New York. I remember John saying to him, “Come on, kid. It’s all grist to your mill. Some day you’re going to write something about Hollywood as good as The Great Gatsby.”

Scott reacted as though he’d been accused of raping his twin sister. He said that he had never written anything worthwhile, that Gatsby was already dead and best forgotten, that nothing he had ever done would live, and not to give him any of that crap about great literature.

Bit by bit, F. Scott Fitzgerald unravels in Hollywood. Certainly, Fitzgerald’s unhappiness with his Hollywood career is a prime factor, and with Zelda quite mad—possibly a schizophrenic—and locked away, an all consuming anger and bitterness envelopes the great novelist.

Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

But John Lee Mahin has a different take on Fitzgerald’s broken spirit:

On the way home John said this was all because of the people Scott was surrounded by, all the writers who had suddenly become politically oriented, social consciousness was the cry, and anyone who merely wrote about people and their everyday problems and emotions, was at least a Facist or maybe worse. Poor Scott had been tossed into this whirlpool of Liberalism, and without a political credo to cling to, was drowning in it. He had never espoused causes, nor been very interested in politics; as a writer, Humanity had meant little to him, the Individual everything…

Of course, Patsy Ruth is describing the emerging cells of Hollywood Reds. The love of humanity at the expense of the individual is at the core of Communist ideology. Too often Communist purges, where thousands if not millions are murdered, are justified by the charming dictum: “You have to break a few eggs in order to make an omelette.”

Patsy Ruth observes:

His work was condemned, they said, and he believed them. He denounced himself even more harshly than his judges, accusing his work of being trivial and superficial.

“He actually told me he’s ashamed of The Great Gatsby,” John fairly snarled. “Those cursed Do-gooders… they’ve got him believing his work isn’t worth a tinkers damn just because he wasn’t waving a banner or marching in a picket line. They’ve destroyed him, as sure as God made little apples.”

That shouldn’t keep him from writing,” I protested.

The Hell it doesn’t,” John said. “Who can write when you’ve been told, when you’ve been convinced that anything you have to say is a bunch of crap. He can write rings around every one of those bastards who’ve done this to him, but he doesn’t believe it any more, and if you don’t believe it, you can’t do it.”

Is Mahin’s theory correct? Did Fitzgerald fail in Hollywood because he felt diminished by an onslaught of politically correct thought?

I doubt that this was the prime reason for Fitzgerald’s Hollywood decline.

Common sense argues that the break-up of his marriage, ill-health, alcoholism, chronic money problems, and a loss of confidence were the prime motivators in F. Scott’s downfall. And let’s not forget that Fitzgerald did write The Last Tycoon, unfinished yes, but still a masterful portrait of Hollywood with Irving Thalberg as Monroe Stahr, the central character.

Nevertheless, Mahin’s denunciations of Fitzgerald as the victim of a politically correct Hollywood ring true as a contributing factor to Fitzgerald’s emotional and professional disintegration.

Drawing from personal experience, I can attest to the wounds that can be inflicted by an almost monolithic political Hollywood sensibility.

Turner Classic Movie Alert

My friend Self Styled Siren, one of the best movie bloggers in the known universe—I think Ms. Siren has read even more Hollywood memoirs than yours truly—is, with the The New York Post’s Lou Lumenick, programming a series of films, in January, for Turner Classic Movies titled: Shadows of Russia

The festival will air Wednesdays in primetime throughout January.

From the TCM press release:

The selections focusing on the many views of Russia and communism to be found in American movies. Some films are masterpieces that the Siren and her readers know almost by heart (Ninotchka, The Manchurian Candidate, The Scarlet Empress), others the Siren loved on viewing but needs to get re-acquainted with (Reds, The Way We Were), still others are oddities deserving of a more focused look (Rasputin and the Empress, Red Danube, Conspirator, Comrade X). And there are some rare films being shown, including Leo McCarey’s film maudit My Son John, with poor doomed Robert Walker in the lead; The North Star, of which I am told TCM has located a good print that should show off James Wong Howe’s cinematography; and I Was a Communist for the FBI.

John Nolte, Editor-in-Chief of Big Hollywood, has given your movie-mad scribe the enviable task of watching and reporting on this series. The films, many of which I have not seen, should prove enlightening, fascinating, amusing, nauseating and positively baffling.  And hey, I really should get combat pay for being forced to endure The Way We Were and Reds.

Congratulations to Siren. Her exemplary work, along with many others in the lively and informative movie blogosphere demonstrates that the Internet is exerting a profound influence on the world of films.

Memo to TCM: If you’d like to program a series exploring the image of Jews in American movies, give me a call.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

I don’t agree, and I think it matters that I be right and they be wrong.

It matters because in a world where the power of images and ideas is becoming stronger every day – where people defend themselves against men with guns by using cellphone cameras – we seem to be fresh out of ideas.

There’s a physical war going on out in the world with us on one side – and on the other a group allied in large part by their rejection of our beliefs as much as their rejection of our power. They are fighting us with bullets and bombs – and with YouTube videos, discussion forums, and impassioned manifestos. They believe, alright. If you ask them, they will clearly tell you that they do and tell you in what.

So as a counterbalance, what do we believe in? On this 4th of July, it’s worth asking – is it just baseball, hot dogs, and light beer?

It’s not, you say – it’s much more than our prosperity – it’s…our freedom. It’s…and then the words run out. Why can’t we say it? Why is it that the people who shape our culture can’t talk about whatever it is that culture is defined by, and instead talk endlessly and with pleasure about those whose only joy is transgressing the culture they can’t express?

Expressing our culture matters. Look, at the end of the day, this war won’t just be won killing those who would kill us. It will be won by converting those who would join them to join us instead. But what do we offer to make it worth joining us, exactly? What makes our side worth joining? Who are we, and what are we trying to do in the world? Why can’t we talk about that?

That’s not a new question. I read a lot – my wife would roll her eyes and say “only a lot?” – and in the course of reading, I tripped over an interesting and little-known book…a political think piece commissioned by Time Magazine founder Henry Luce in 1959 called Beyond Survival. In the first chapter, author Max Ways (a Time political correspondent) talks about the inability of the United States to formulate policies that were not responses to crises from the outside, and what that would mean as the Cold War drifted to deadlock. What would happen to America as its foreign policy drifted into a dead end?

That, precisely, is the question. For if the fault in our national policy-making process is not to be found in the government itself nor in the public itself, it must be in the way these two are connected. Are the people being asked the right questions by their leaders? Is it possible under present circumstances for leaders to ask the right questions or for the people to answer? Can the great public issues that affect our destiny be framed in a way that allows helpful public participation?

Every citizen feels free and easy in expressing his opinion about specifics of what the government does or proposes to do; but we have become timid about discussing the ends and the fundamental beliefs that condition political action. This reticence shuts off the public from that part of political life with which it is most capable of dealing, the moral part. What can the citizen be expected to contribute to a discussion of how many aircraft carriers we should build or how we should handle the technical diplomatic problems of the Berlin crisis? Topics such as these are unprofitably kicked around in public argument while a near silence prevails upon the larger questions of what we are trying to do and the moral relations between our goals and the means we choose.

The only people breaking that near silence today are those on the left who seem to believe that our national goal should be to provide redress to the masses of the world who have been wronged by the power relationships in the past century, and those on the right who simply seem to believe that national power – in and of itself – ought to be our goal. And that, having kicked down opposing powers and established our primacy, that the people of the world would simply stand with us.

Both of these dangerous delusions seem to be based on the postmodern interpretation that power relationships are all, and that highlighting them, and where possible inverting them, is man’s noblest goal (note that I think there’s more to postmodernism than this – but not a lot more to postmodern politics).

The people who matter in this are, more than anything, the mythmakers – the Hollywood folks who this site is supposedly about. Because what we have misplaced somehow are the American myths that matter. I can’t lay them out here – I can’t even find my car keys, much less missing myths. But I think I know just a bit what they look like and can set out a post office sketch in case you happen to trip over them and care to bring them back to our attention.

But if instinctive patriotism and the patriotism of the city cannot be ours, what can be? Is there a type of patriotism peculiarly American: if so, is it anything more than patriotism’s violent relative nationalism? Abraham Lincoln, the supreme authority on this subject, thought there was a patriotism unique to America. Americans, a motley gathering of various races and cultures, were bonded together not by blood or religion, not by tradition or territory, not by the calls and traditions of a city, but by a political idea. We are a nation formed by a covenant, by dedication to a set of principles, and by an exchange of promises to uphold and advance certain commitments among ourselves and throughout the world. Those principles and commitments are the core of American identity, the soul of the body politic. They make the American nation unique, and uniquely valuable among and to the other nations. But the other side of this conception contains a warning very like the warnings spoken by the prophets to Israel: if we fail in our promises to each other, and lose the principles of the covenant, then we lose everything, for they are we.”[emphasis added]

That’s leftist professor John Schaar, from his essay on patriotism – ‘The Case For Patriotism.’ Schaar was one of my professors in college – sadly, on that I didn’t pay enough attention to back then – and one thing about his teaching was that it was largely based not only in texts – the Federalist Papers and Mill and Locke – but in novels that he felt encapsulated a greater truth about America and American politics – novels like Moby Dick and The Great Gatsby.

Because he understood that what it takes to understand America is to understand myths.

And I’ve got to tell you that everywhere I look in popular culture – movies, television, books, music – the only myths I see are ones that define themselves in opposition to this unstated myth, and leave it to be defined as a negative – defined by where it isn’t.

Where are our American myths today? How can we prevail in this conflict, except by brute power, without them? How can we refashion them, with proper reverence to the myths that brought us to this place and with relevance to a wider world that suddenly connects us to cultures far outside our own? What American myth can a young Palestinian child find to compete with the hateful death-embracing myths that he is being force-fed today?