The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite novels of all time. I’m not a pencil-necked critic – I don’t feel the need to defend it – and I am looking forward to going to the movie. Fortunately my oldest went the other night and texted me this hasty review:
“It’s a story with no good guys in it. Tom’s a cheating white supremacist pig. Daisy actually made me hate women and Gatsby, well Gatsby ain’t bad – but he says “old sport” too much and in the end his existence was sooo bleak you’re almost happy he’s dead”
So that’s how it looks to a teenager who has not yet read the book. (He is however, almost through everything Cormac McCarthy has written – He’s a big reader) Thus forewarned I’m going to go see it soon.
On the scale of literary/theater criticism today where Northrop Frye might be at the high end of the scale (criticism as analysis – a tool for understanding) and youtube commentary at the bottom (typically “f*ck you you f*cking f*ck, you’re a f*cking n*zi”) I’d say the kid is edging more towards the former than the latter.
To me the novel has always been about loneliness – about not belonging even when you try hard to belong and even look – for a while – like you belong. But you don’t.
The movie will have it’s critics as the book does but it doesn’t matter to me – I give not a single gram of fuck what others think – I will go see it for myself.
My name is Steve and I beat on, boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past … special thanks to F. Scott Fitzgerald!