Doesn’t it disturb you that it’s another story about a filthy rich man playboy billionaire who gets obsessed about a girl. But in this story, he dies. After all, this is F Scott Fitzgerald, not just Hollywood.
It was, a beautiful story. A veritable whirlwind of wanton laughter, over-the-top partying, if it were indeed possible to out do revellers with even more fake exuberance. If the nightclubs of real life were that fake with makeup, cheap glittery dresses, firework sparkling champagne bottles, monogrammed shirts, meaningless techno beats, and harsh bright lights, then the great parties of Mr Gatsby outdid them all. These random parties of strangers, gossip, frivolity was a far escape from the real city. A far away mansion across a bridge, through the grim coal mines, past wooded forests.
You could hear the lyrics filling the great Hall – “when I grow old, will you still love me?” echoed by a thousand drunk ladies. The gravity of the thought, and the brevity of the atmosphere, only makes you more drunk, only accentuates the absurdity of it all.
The formal English of the 1900s, what a work of art. The dramatic politesse, the honor of gentlemen. Or perhaps those were only the playthings of the rich and comfortable.
I think I will watch it again sometime in the future.
Kudos to the great writers with the creativity and imagination to write magnificent works of art. I hope more people get to enjoy the books and read something written with care, thought, and love.