A review of ‘The Beautiful and Damned’… (which was shit).
The lives of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Sayre created a legacy perhaps unrivalled. They weaved such a rich tapestry that it’s been a constant surprise to me that their memory has been left as the fiction they created. In their novels and short stories, all of which owed as much to one as the other, fact blurred with fiction; experience and aspiration was their inspiration. Perhaps, they gave so much of their life to their art, there was no point exploiting what was left.
Their legend is a gift to the gossips. Analysis is plentiful, yet transference to the stage or film is rare. Consequently there’s a responsibility for that which is. Major biographies of each are controversial; the underpinning of their creativity, and interdependency of their works have become a weapon for feminist revisionists. An exaggerated picture of a suppressed talent; Scott holding back Zelda’s burning inventiveness, refusing to be outshone. Dishonesty abounds on both sides, yet controversy must be acknowledged.
Alas, under the pretence of a tribute to the Jazz Age, ‘The Beautiful and Damned’ is unashamed of its allegiance to the feminist critique. Recurring judgement is passed out, culminating with an aggressive Scott confronting Zelda for publishing ‘Save me the Waltz’ at the same time as his own ‘Tender in the Night’. This was the natural consequence of an earlier scene, when Scott’s publisher advised them to submit Zelda’s stories under Scott’s name, until he finished his novel. The necessity and consent of this decision was glossed over.
Indeed Scott’s entire career was neglected ; not once did we see him write, suggestion being that intoxication fuelled his pen to the destruction of those around. The misconception that Scott was a flamboyant author is common: his spelling mistakes were legendary, and he was an alcoholic. But this belies the meticulous care for his craft, and his almost scholarly attention to his works. Although he churned out short stories for cash, (referring to himself as a prostitute), F. Scott Fitzgerald the genius novelist who defined and personified an age was absent from this play. The scenes in Paris of permanent party were only part of the truth. Hemingway, in ‘A Moveable Feast’ said :”Scott also showed us a large ledger with all of the stories he had published listed in it year after year with the prices he had received for them and also the amounts received for any motion picture sales, and the sales and royalties for his books. They were all noted as carefully as the log of a ship and Scott showed them to both of us with impersonal pride as though he were the curator of a museum.”
To delve so deeply into the lives of Scott and Zelda, using them as a vehicle for this performance, but without touching upon the craft of authorship is shameful. Further evidence that this was the trumpeting of Zelda came in the treatment of their respective afflictions. Whilst Zelda the schizophrenic was painted with sympathy and compassion, Scott, the alcoholic, received blame and contempt. There was implied, (but clear) causality, with no empathy for the vice of addiction. The party scenes were followed by hang over – a reckless abandonment before Scott’s tragic demise. No mention of his later life, where he was sober for two years living a modest life in Hollywood with Sheilah Graham. In real life, his latter day companion had considerately abstained from the funeral, and now, her memory was vanished by this production, conveniently erased for the story. Instead, upon Scott’s death the female protagonists, dressed in black, wail out a song with the recurring chorus of “Being a women” – an unsubtle slight.
Alas, it was not the only unsubtle jeer toward the memory of Scott. For example the scene in whish Zelda publicly mocks the size of his manhood. Undoubtedly clouded by legend, the historical evidence of this episode, as far as I am aware, is penned by Hemingway. At a luncheon Scott confides that Zelda complained that he couldn’t satisfy her, but after they visit the Gents, Hemingway judges it normal. ”Check the nude male statues at the Louvre” was his advice.
It struck me as fabrication to take such an anecdote, (written by Hemingway in an attempt to mock), and present it as fact. Scott never enjoyed the speculation that followed, and to refer to it out of context demonstrates a lust for gratuity. It is a pathetic weapon, and irrelevant. What more obvious way is there to belittle a man…?
Given that this musical would probe so speculatively I was dismayed that they left out so much of the good stuff: Scott and Zelda racing around the Place de la Concorde in a stolen delivery-cart, the boxing match between Hemingway and Morley Callaghan, (where Scott, acting as time-keeper, forgot to stop the round after two-minutes which prompted the break down in his friendship with Hemingway) or indeed the dinners with Pound and Joyce, and the artistic climate in Paris at the time. Countless anecdotes of humour, neglected in favour of speculative molestation.
The cameo of Hemingway was a curious one, for although he had stage presence, and a remarkable likeness, he hovered like a spectre. Whilst his animosity toward Zelda was accurate, his drunken advances toward her were actually groping the truth. Her rebuttal, and statement that he was nothing more than a hairy chest again alludes to, without explaining, an actual event. But the insult was levied by a critic (who Hemingway confronted in his Editors office by ripping open his shirt to compare hair), and unless an audience is expected to know this, Zelda’s lines merely present an untruth. It led us to a cringingly awful quarrel between Scott and Hemmingway over Zelda, which spilled over into literary style itself. An inaccurate caricature of the unemotional grafter vs the forlorn romantic. This was an utterly false depiction of both authors, again underlining that this production had no care for Scott the writer.
Indeed the Fitzgerald’s bequest of one liners was inexplicably passed up; the only one I caught was Zelda saying ”Marriage shouldn’t be a backdrop to drama; it should be the drama”, which was sadly thrown away. There is enough content in their essays, stories and novels to assemble a sparkling musical by merely piecing together their own words. The script and lyrics truly were dire as every opportunity was taken for a spot lit soliloquy. The very point of acting is so that characters need not explain every thought and emotion to the strain of nauseating music. “Zelda, I’m reading your letter. Over, and over again”, and a little later ”Zelda, I’m trying to sleep”, what next - ”Zelda, I’m entering stage right…”. I was laughing out loud for most of the songs.
Not that is was all cringe worthy, mind. Although mostly evoking images of a special needs school outing to the set of ‘The House of Elliot’, some scenes truly were marvellous. The fountain of Champagne that lit up a fantastical ball was memorable; characters gradually dishevelled into a manic orgy of dance, ending in the fountain itself. Extras threw water into the stalls, and Zelda was released. Inspirational.
So too, the finale. The cast romanced onto stage into a wonderfully choreographed routine, lapping up the undeserving applause. Indeed if the musical was precisely that, and played to these strengths it would have been fantastic. But by delving into literary history, pursued with a clear bias and presented as such, it mocked, rather than celebrated its protagonists.
Zelda embodied the ideal that Scott created, (”I married the heroine of my stories”), and shared with him all that they’d become. They were emotionally devoted, in a beautiful imperfect love like any other. As Scott struggled with alcoholism, and Zelda with schizophrenia, the physical togetherness ceased, yet the burning, enduring love remained. They now lie side by side, their remains pecked away by vultures furthering their own agenda. With such perfect ingredients, and so many opportunities for a truly dazzling testament to an age, it sometimes shocks just how bad theatre can be. And this was truly awful.
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