All That Is Hollywood Tinsel Is Not Gold- F. Scott Fitzgerald At The End-“The Pat Hobby Stories”

All That Is Hollywood Tinsel Is Not Gold- F. Scott Fitzgerald At The End-“The Pat Hobby Stories”

Book Review

By Seth Garth

The Pat Hobby Stories, F. Scott Fitzgerald, originally printed in Esquire magazine, 1940-1941, collected 1962   

I had in earlier times, a few years ago now, gone on and on about who best represented the so-called Jazz Age F. Scott Fitzgerald whose works either coined the phrase or so well the times he owned the term or his fellow Parisian ex-pat Ernest Hemingway. Both exiles from a sullen America that was turning in on itself just when looking outward was necessary. Sound familiar? During that joust I came decidedly out on the side of Fitzgerald based on the great classic novel The Great Gatsby which put a microscope to the whole sordid mess of post-World War I America. Having answered that rather narrow question I have never done so, nor have never been asked by the previous site manager who gives out such assignment Allan Jackson, or the current one Greg Green to tackle the broader question of who had the more powerful collective novel output. For that I would have to flip to Hemingway both because he left a greater treasure-trove of such work and because he worked better in that genre. I have also never been asked to evaluate the better of the two when it comes to short stories. Then I would have to flip back to Fitzgerald since he wrote a ton more mainly to keep the dunning debt collector wolves from the door and live a life-style his wife Zelda was accustomed to and because he had a certain lyricism that hit the mark on this genre.

That brings us kind of full circle to the short story collection under review Fitzgerald’s  The Pat Hobby Stories written late in his career and while he was working like seven dervishes as a screen-writer in the Hollywood trying to salvage whatever scripts came his way while drinking up half the liquor cabinets in Beverly Hills. That drinking curse aside even at the end he had “it,” had that certain feel for what makes a short story entertaining and make a point, a social or literary point. In the interest of transparency, a trait, which Greg Green seems to be trying to cultivate here, the reason I was given this assignment by him was that I was the only one who had previously done any work on either author. According to Greg some of the other younger writers if you can believe this had never read anything but either man and only knew of them by reputation. Jesus.   

The title tells the story all of these twenty or so stories revolved around one Pat Hobby. One has-been screenwriter who had been around the Hollywood studio scene since Hector was a pup. Since the silent film days if anybody was asking. The former a very different kind of screenwriting skill from that of the “talkies” which depended on dialogue more than the earlier visual props setting to get through. Back in the day Pat had been king of the hill, had been a go to guy for every producer and director who needed an idea or a sick script worked on.  That was reflected in his upscale life-style (including the status symbol obligatory swimming pool to announce you had arrived), his bevy of wives who as he memorably noted later “fed out of his pocket” were in turn discarded and his more than nodding acquaintance with the stars of the era, male and female.             

But that was then, that was some ten years before the time of these stories which were written by Fitzgerald in 1939-1941 and so tell me that our Pat didn’t transition very well to the new milieu. At the time of the stories he is a forty-nine year old has-been hanging around studio lots “doing the best he can.” Grabbing a turkey of a script nobody else wanted to do, cadging his old director and producer friends to put him on contract salary at much diminished rates from the old top dollar days. Trying to “steal” other younger writers thunder when working with other writers. In short a man who is in decline.   

Pat though is not solely the victim of outside objective forces. He has a drinking problem, seems to have been an alcoholic, like Fitzgerald’s which would kill the author at an early age. He also seems to have liked to “play the ponies” which when you have no dough can be a dicey proposition as Bart Webber who has written about his own very real gambling jones here can tell you. Moreover it seems that it was touch and go about here he would be laying down his head any given night. A studio set empty bed or the back of his repo man’s delight car on its last legs (and not even owned by him).

Yeah, a guy on the skids, a guy a couple of inches away from the “row.” The big problem though is Pat has lost a step or seven in the “idea” department, has gotten stale. Not so off of this collection Fitzgerald though since I was eager, more than eager, to get to the next story to see what was what with Pat as a writer. From me that is a high compliment to an author. Enough said.