Public Domain: The Slow, Painless Death of a Classic (Review of The Great Gatsby: The Musical)

 

public domain - noun - the state of belonging or being available to the public as a whole, therefore not subject to copyright.

On January 1, 2021, F. Scott Fitzgerald's comparatively brief, literary masterpiece, The Great Gatsby entered the public domain after 95 years of copyright protection. With it, the doors to Jay's mansion were opened up to permit party crashers (present writers) to enter and reek anarchic havoc indefinitely on a flawless classic that deserves to be preserved since perfection needs no improvement.

The other night, a close friend of mine invited me to see the premiere of the new musical The Great Gatsby at the Tony-winning regional theater, the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn, New Jersey. As a Gatsby connoisseur, I gratefully accepted, hoping for the best.

On the plus side, the show's cast list reads like the Broadway version of Who's Who, and the production values are excellent, completely comparable to that of any present-day Broadway musical. The music is pretty much Disney-esque (think "Frozen" here). Surely, the producers must have high hopes to realize a continuation of the show on the Great White Way after the limited engagement at the Paper Mill ends in December. The entire run, apparently, is sold out, which is most unusual for a local New Jersey theater. For The Great Gatsby: The Musical, the buzz is loud and boisterous. But is the reality? Sadly, no.

Considering what it is, a musical loosely based on Gatsby, the title is all wrong. It should have been called, "Jay and Daisy, Nick and Jordan." Why? Perhaps ignorant of the original, yet conscious of the contemporary trend to erase the ugliness of history in favor of "woke" ideology, the updated version pays little attention to Fitzgerald's organization of events, realigning key moments and lines of dialogue so that they just do not make any sense contextually. It also reimagines the main characters (a buffoonish Jay; a manipulative, vengeful Daisy) as well as relatively insignificant secondary characters, changing them to significant ones by reconceptualizing their personalities, and adding contemporary dialogue to make all of them scarcely credible given the setting of the 1920s. Forget about Nick's first person narration as well. Meyer Wolfsheim enters on occasion from stage left as somewhat of a stage manager–for what reason, I have no idea. Further plot complications are also included (Myrtle Wilson winds up pregnant with Tom's baby, which makes Daisy guilty of double manslaughter), but definitely not needed. The jostling, rearranging, reimagining and adding amount to chaos. Yet apparently, the audiences are eating it all up, awarding the piece with standing ovations night after night. Do they not see that the Emperor is not wearing any clothes? "Ignorance is bliss." I'll say so. 

No doubt, the money from the box office receipts will continue to pour in, bolstering this parody of the original. If Fitzgerald were still alive and seated in the audience, he might have enjoyed it, but don't forget that he had a sense of humor (he married Zelda), needed the money desperately, and most likely would have been roaringly drunk at the performance. My guess is that the masterminds of The Great Gatsby: The Musical might be fans, not of Scott but of Mark Twain, embracing his idea that it is "easier to fool people than to convince them that they have been fooled." 

My hope is that the laws of public domain will be edited so that classic literature will be protected from slanderous imitation indefinitely. Tip for writers: Be original. Come up with your own ideas for musicals. Don't borrow from the greats just for the sake of the all-mighty dollar. You'll most definitely come up short, maybe not in this climate, but in the long run when people finally wake up to see that the Emperor is actually naked, recognizing what they might have thought was ingenious is actually rubbish. 

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Pool Personalities: Different Strokes for Different Folks

 

natatorium - noun - an indoor swimming pool

To keep in shape as a sexagenarian (I like the look and sound of this one), along with numerous others of miscellaneous ages, I swim almost three miles a week at the local health club's natatorium, a word that I've known for years but can usually never remember. (Thank goodness it doesn't come up at cocktail parties.) Three days a week, I am usually fighting to find a lane for myself. I'm usually lucky, but when I'm not and have to wait, I spend the minutes watching how other people swim. Since no one stroke for anyone is executed in exactly the same way, it is quite amusing to see just how many personal styles there are. Believe me, there are multitudinous pool personalities, different strokes for different folks.

For one, men swim differently then women, generally–and not surprisingly–more aggressively. In my experience as an observer, when most men hit the water to swim freestyle, they proceed to hit the water– literally, unintentionally (maybe) slapping it with open palms so that swimmers in other lanes get splashed in the face. If you happen to enjoy keeping your head above water (good advice in and out of the pool), then you can't escape the brutal spray, which, I would imagine, might be comparable to swimming laps in the Olympic-size fountain at the Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas. Not fun. However, whenever the younger men who sport Speedos, wide, V-like shoulders, and six-pack abs approach the tank, you can bet they spent time swimming competitively. These men are perfect physically and are a joy to swim beside as they don't pound angrily. They alternate their arms, forming smooth arcs at the base of which are hands that dip quietly into the water, their legs beating out the right rhythm to guarantee forward moment with minimum wake. Ah! They are the sons of Neptune himself. A joy to observe and swoon over. (Too bad they don't come along too frequently.)

The women swimmers, on the other hand, can be idiosyncratic. For instance, there is one very petite Asian woman, a regular as I am, who likes to do the backstroke. Yet her stroke is more like that used in ballet. Her alternating arms move in slow motion to silent orchestration, her hands are splayed and her thumbs and forefingers, touching, like those of a plastic baby doll's. She doesn't get across the pool rapidly, but she composes her own aquatic poetry. Other women, the ones in my age group, tend to bring props like flippers and masks, noodles and such into the pool. They make me feel like I am on the beach at a resort hotel in the Caribbean, watching people snorkel among the shallow reefs. (I hope the club isn't thinking about making the pool into a salt water tank for colorful fish as it is kept healthy via bromide.) Perhaps these women at a young age were inspired by Aphrodite or Calypso albeit I can't imagine either in snorkel gear. 

Although I am not an athlete, I can still remember what I learned in fourth grade when our gym class had the unique pleasure of taking swimming classes at the local pool, conveniently located next door to our elementary school so that we could walk to the outdoor natatorium in June just before the end of the school year. I try to practice good pool etiquette when I can; however, I must admit that I disregard all signage that insists that swimmers take showers before diving into the pool. I have noticed that most people do ignore the signs. I guess we are rebels without much of a cause other than to get in and out of the pool sooner than later to free up lanes for others. After all, unselfishness is amphibious. I'd like to think so anyway.

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