The Last Tycoon, or The Love of the Last Tycoon as some believe it was supposed to be titled, was Fitzgerald’s final and unfinished novel. It was published posthumously in 1941, based on his compiled notes. In the Penguin Modern Classics edition, only the first six chapters remain intact, although even these are confessedly unpolished. As such, the book is a difficult one to review. Should I review the narrative that is available, or the story that might have been had Fitzgerald not died during its composition? The synopsis of the missing chapters goes some way towards filling in the blanks but only as a tentative shell. Edmund Wilson states in his introduction that had Fitzgerald lived to complete it, The Last Tycoon would have being his masterpiece, eclipsing even The Great Gatsby. I am unconvinced and will review the book as it stands.
The viewpoint of the story fluctuates between first and omniscient third person. Cecilia Brady, daughter of a Hollywood film producer, is the principle narrator despite not being physically present in many of the scenes. Head honcho Monroe Stahr is the star of the novel and object of Cecilia’s admiration. The gifted yet weary tycoon has worked himself to exhaustion and seems intent on self destruction. He falls for an elusive woman named Kathleen and has a fling with her. Meanwhile, the film company is in crisis. As far as plot events go, that’s about it really. The unwritten scenes would have seen the rivalry between Stahr and associate Bradogue Brady (Cecilia’s father) come to a head, lots of people getting their salaries cut, a murder, a plane crash and a funeral. Unfortunately, I did not lament this absence because by the time I got to the premature ending I was already bored to death of both the story and characters. Perhaps I’m being unfair, but reviewing a half completed novel was never going to be just.
The idea of Hollywood has always bored me, it’s a world permeated by crude glamour and flimsy glitz, jaded dreams and silicone enhancements. The Last Tycoon marks a transition from the old school, auteur style of film making to the commercialisation of the industry and the hands-off, by the numbers approach. This was, at least in my opinion, the death of good Hollywood cinema. The world failed to excite, immerse or even move me, the characters were just names on a page and the more fully realised Stahr was irritating. We are constantly told what a visionary genius he is, yet that never quite comes across in his actions. Fitzgerald devotes an entire chapter, a long one at that, to detailing a day in the life of the producer and at no time was I convinced of his merits. It was downright boring to read. Stahr’s relationship with Kathleen, intended as the focal plot point, was mildly engaging with some real potential for drama. I would only recommend this book to the Fitzgerald’s biggest fans.
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