November 7 was marathon day in New York City, and I took part. But you wouldn’t have found me among the more than 40,000 runners huddled in the cold morning light of Staten Island, waiting for the start of the 41st New York Marathon. I prefer endurance tests of a theatrical nature, and this fall New York offered a cultural challenge that makes just running around the city seem as tough as Sunday brunch. After all, most New York marathoners will finish the five-borough, 26.2 mi circuit in under five hours. But if you want to see the Public Theater’s presentation of the play Gatz — a dramatic reading of all 49,000 words in The Great Gatsby, each “he said” and “she laughed” included — you need to set aside more than eight hours for four acts split by two intermissions and a 75-minute dinner break. For those keeping score that’s enough time for this year’s marathon champion, Ethiopia’s Gebre Gebrmariam, to run his race nearly four times over.
I’ll admit, Gatz was a personal test. Just how serious about theater was I? (I don’t think I was alone in that reasoning — despite the daunting length and $140 ticket prices for what is, in the end, an actor reading from a book, Gatz has all but sold out at the Public.) And in lesser hands, that’s all Gatz might have been: a forgettable novelty, a merit badge for veteran theatergoers. But the Elevator Repair Service —an experimental theater group that has frequently adapted literary works for the stage and which has worked on Gatz for over a decade — has created something that lingers in the mind long after the leg cramps from all that sitting have subsided. Gatz dramatizes the narrative spell cast by a beloved novel, giving life on stage to what plays out in the mind of the reader. And in doing so it rescues F. Scott Fitzgerald’s great American work from the high school canon, making it new again.
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Like any marathon, though, it can take some time at the start to ease into the pace. The set — the only set, though used ingeniously — is a dumpy, dingy office, with ripped sofas bleeding fabric, rows of hard metal file boxes and one very balky computer. It’s that failure of tech support that begins the narrative — a man (Scott Shepherd), in the uniform of an office drone, can’t get his computer to start. Waiting for tech support, Shepherd roots around his desk and finds a battered paperback copy of The Great Gatsby hiding in an empty Rolodex. For no obvious purpose, he begins to read, out loud, beginning with the beginning. Shepherd won’t put the book down for another eight hours.
At first his pace is hesitant, tripping over the sentences, just as anyone might if they were reading fresh words out loud for the first time, especially if you’re grappling with Fitzgerald’s baroque narration. As the reading continues, other office workers enter the stage — a nervy secretary in golfing pants, a swaggering maintenance man, a delicate secretary in pearls — sometimes reacting, sometimes not, to the oddity of Shepherd’s reading Gatsby in the middle of the workday. Silent comedy ensues — the only lines spoken onstage come directly from the novel —with the production in the office playing off the events of the novel. A phone call in the novel is a phone call in the office. The green light that calls to Jay Gatsby from Daisy Buchanan’s dock is here an LED motion sensor on the office wall, glimpsed for a moment.
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If you’re going to perform a dramatized reading of The Great Gatsby — one of the lushest novels in American literature, down to the thick green carpet of Gatsby’s Long Island lawn — why set it in a modern, lifeless office? Probably for the same reason the Elevator Repair Service called their play “Gatz,” the real surname of Fitzgerald’s central character before his self-willed transformation into Jay Gatsby. Gatsby is after all of a novel of dreams, how dreams can grow from the unlikeliest soil, remain alive even when they should have long died, and exact a terrible cost on the dreamer.
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Setting the play in an office so dreary it seems fit only for workplace homicide grounds Fitzgerald’s endlessly romantic narration in the ordinary, where the only escape is a daydream or a novel. And the company draws that contrast again and again, reinforcing the humor in this book that is funnier than I remember — even if the comedy isn’t always intentional. At one point Shepherd comes across a phrase about Gatsby: “He was a son of God —a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that.” He pauses, reads it silently again, then just throws up his hands and continues, drawing the biggest laugh of the night. Sometimes Fitzgerald’s sense ran ahead of his sensibility.
But by the time Shepherd reads those words, a change has taken place on stage. His narration — at first so halting and unsure — has become warm and rich, a storyteller’s voice. Shepherd assumes the narration and Carraway’s dialogue, but gradually the other workers at the office take on the roles from the book — the woman in golf pants (Susie Sokol) becomes jaunty Jordan Baker, the maintenance man (Gary Wilmes) becomes a suitably brutish Tom Buchanan and the balding, granite-faced boss (Jim Fletcher) becomes an unlikely Gatsby, alternately tragic and menacing, wholly lacking any sort of golden glow. Helped by some excellent sound design (by Ben Williams) that evokes the urban bustle of flapper-era New York and the natural hum of still rural Long Island, the world of the novel bleeds into the office, and finally replaces it altogether. It’s a tribute to the inventiveness of director John Collins and the energy of his cast of 13 that a few glasses and a bottle or two of whiskey can create one of Gatsby’s fantastic West Egg parties.
As the book’s remarkably lean plot unfolds — Gatsby finding his Daisy and losing her, discovering it’s not so easy, or advisable, to repeat the idealized past — audience concentration waxes and wanes, just as it might when reading even a great novel. But when released for a dinner break halfway through I stumbled out into a crisp November night in a partial daze, ears still ringing with Fitzgerald’s words. This was indeed a marathon but I was lucky — I never hit the wall, though others did, and I saw a few empty seats by Acts III and IV. No surprise there — any work this ambitious and long will be polarizing. Either you love it or you probably went home.
And I loved Gatz, probably because I love The Great Gatsby — a love I’d put aside as slightly embarrassing, like a high-school crush, until this play brought it back. Not that the novel is revealed here as perfect; hearing every word of Gatsby read aloud reminded me of just how silly this book could be, by a writer who up to his too-early death at 44 never seemed to quite grow up, just like his Gatsby. The novel is set in 1922 and both Gatsby and Nick are veterans of the war (unlike Fitzgerald, who never made it to France, a failing he was acutely aware of), but you wouldn’t know it — no echoes of the trenches here. At a time when Hemingway and Eliot and Woolf and Joyce were remaking literature from the ground up, Fitzgerald was writing his old-fashioned stories in an old-fashioned way. Religion, business, politics, race, war — just about everything that makes America American — is absent here. The Great Gatsby as the great American novel? Only if there’s a special category for Best Parties.
Yet The Great Gatsby endures, and not just in high school libraries (if they even still exist). It endures because its language is enchanting, and that enchantment draws its power from the deep wells of feeling Fitzgerald possessed, palpable on the page, palpable even in a dingy ofice. By the last act, as Nick narrates Gatsby’s murder and worse, the death of his dream, Shepherd puts the text away and recites from heart, finally ending with those lines that retain their freshness no matter how often they’re read: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” But as the curtain closed and the tired audience cheered — having crossed its finish line — I was thinking of another line, by Hemingway about Fitzgerald: “His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings.” And like a butterfly wing, that talent was fragile; it would soon be marred, then lost and unrecoverable. Gatz may be a marathon, but Fitzgerald was definitely a sprinter; the tragedy beneath the tragedy in Gatsby is that its author would never write so perfectly again.
But then, who would? What Gatz did, through all its hours, was leave me convinced that Gatsby really is the great American novel — a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that.
(See TIME’s set of 2010 theater reviews.)
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