The Invisible Mitt.

In my mind, I dance like Fred Astaire. The reality is different. Just as, I’m sure, in Mitt Romney’s mind, he’s Calvin Coolidge. Both are worthy goals, but nothing we will achieve in this lifetime. As a politician, the closest Mr. Romney will ever get to resembling a famous person (beside the model on a box of hair color) is Claude Rains in The Invisible Man (1933): an empty suit that walks and talks like a man. True, he doesn’t scare anyone (except Republicans) but if you listen to him (I don’t advise it, but it’s becoming inevitable) what he says amounts to nothing more than the insane cackle made famous by Mr. Rains.

Mitt Romney can’t complain about the Obama administration when he’s spent the last four years earning $86 million - without working. Oh, he can complain, but the eighty six million people who made nothing in those years won’t take him seriously. He can brag about his achievements in finance, they’re real, but, again, if Joe can’t afford a six-pack, it’s not the right strategy. He can boast about being Governor of Massachusetts and making low-cost, high-quality healthcare available to all residents, but not if he wants the Republican Presidential nomination. As for professing his Mormon faith - about which, I’m sure, he’s entirely sincere - I don’t think the nation is ready for it. If the broadway musical, The Book of Mormon, can be compared to a minstrel show, (I haven’t seen it) true acceptance is far off. You can’t even count on the Osmonds anymore. At this point, Donny and Marie are no more than abnormally charming adults.

It doesn’t leave much for a candidate to talk about. Any candidate. That wouldn’t stop Newt Gingrich, of course, but nothing would besides a glue trap. So, if I were Mitt Romney, I’d give up elective politics and aim for something remotely possible (very remote, I hope): Secretary of the Treasury in the next Republican administration. Until then, he should be content with resembling James Garner in the movie, Cash McCall (1960): a handsome, young, business executive, who buys companies and sells them for a profit. I’d take it. After Fred Astaire, it’s my second favorite fantasy.

Newt Gingrich Is To Class War As Donald Trump Is To Class.

It’s not impossible for Newt Gingrich to say something intelligent, it’s just unnecessary. So, imagine my surprise when he said something recently that, if not intelligent, was, at least, thought-provoking. Responding to the State of the Union Address, he accused President Obama of advocating class war. I, personally, have always advocated class war (Let’s Kick Some Class, TFT 10/25/11) but, to my knowledge, the President never has. Even if you were only paying half-attention on Tuesday night, there’s no way to construe his remarks otherwise. Yet, Mr. Gingrich did. Why?

There can only be two sides in a war: us and them, right against wrong, good vs. evil. Thus, there can only be two classes in a class war, forcing people to choose one or the other. Which class would Mr. Gingrich choose? He seems to make an upper-class income, but knowing for sure is hard because someone who was thrown out of Congress for eighty-four ethics violations may be tempted to under-report. (The Gingrich That Stalks Christmas, TFT 12/7/11) Bloomberg News claims that “Newt Gingrich made between $1.6 million and $1.8 million in consulting fees (what he calls being a “historian,” what you call being a “lobbyist”) from two contracts with mortgage company, Freddie Mac, according to two people familiar with the arrangement.” Even with expensive habits like cheating on his wives and marrying his mistresses, that would still leave him well-ensconced within the one per cent. The problem is that he faces an opponent for the Republican Presidential nomination, Mitt Romney, who is conspicuously, even defiantly, upper-class. A man so stupendously wealthy that he can afford hundreds of wives. (Although his religion has forbidden it since 1898.) Welcome to the lower class, Newt. But wait, Newt Gingrich hates poor people. Unless their children are earning enough to send the whole family back to the old country, he begrudges them the air they breathe. The only groups he may hate more are women, minorities, gays, liberals, the media and anyone who disagrees with him.

As far as I can tell, the only role for Mr. Gingrich in the coming war between the classes is that of Switzerland. You know, the country that claimed to be neutral while melting Granny’s gold teeth into ingots for their favorite bank customers, the Nazis. But that’s no good, either. How do you explain that to voters, especially in an election year?

Let’s face it, this utterance defies rational analysis and further discussion would only dignify it. Newt Gingrich’s statement on class war would appear to be another half-thought from a half-wit with a loud mouth. Someone like Donald Trump, but without the entertainment value.

Filming The Great Gatsby: A Classic Blunder.

About ten years ago, film director, Baz Luhrmann, wondered why The Great Gatsby succeeded as a novel, but always failed as a movie. He never found out. But that didn’t stop him. According to an article by Michael Cieply in The New York Times (1/17/12), “Baz. Luhrmann – the Australian director of films like “Australia” and “Moulin Rouge!” - is planning to release a star-packed, high-budget version of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s much-admired novel of the Jazz Age next Christmas.”

Both the weaknesses and strengths of The Great Gatsby defy dramatization, but it’s easy to see why filmmakers are tempted. They think, “White suits! Mansions! Limousines! Best of all, we get intellectual credentials by adapting a classic of American literature.” The last director to fall into this trap was Jack Clayton in 1974. You may not have heard of him, but the star of the film, Robert Redford, is well known. So is its screenwriter, a fellow by the name of Francis Ford Coppola. (I hear they’ve both done some directing.) Why did all their combined talents produce nothing more than a sleeping pill? No mystery. Anyone who attempts to dramatize Gatsby faces the same four challenges. One, a stupid plot: some claptrap about seeking the girl of your dreams in Great Neck, Long Island - with a side trip to Queens. Two, weak characters: the women are playthings; the men are macho jerks, sniveling wannabes and the title character, who is vague until the end, when he is less than he seems. Three, doing justice to not one, but two themes that are central to American culture: our worship of success in the form of money and the belief that we can always re-invent ourselves. Finally, there’s the language – the gorgeous, poetic style in which the novel is written. Any filmmaker who attempts to put Fitzgerald on the screen must find a visual analog for his literary style.

No amount of gangsters, flappers or millionaires will suffice unless they “. . . came and went like moths among the whispering and the champagne and the stars.” Cast any actress you want as Daisy Buchanan - unless “Her voice is full of money . . . the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it” she’s wasting her time. You can show a man brooding at the end of a pier, but how do you convey, “He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in the vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.”

The first choice (and last resort) of most directors would be a voiceover narration. A famously weak device, all voiceovers say the same thing: you couldn’t come up with a visual solution. (Citizen Kane and Sunset Boulevard are the exceptions that prove the rule.) Baz Luhrmann had a better idea. At least, he thought he did. Shoot it in 3-D! It occurred to him while listening to James Cameron talk about “Avatar.” What convinced him was Alfred Hitchcock’s Dial M For Murder, a film that hasn’t been seen in 3-D since it was first released in 1954. In fact, Mr. Cieply writes, “He found only two projectors, one in New York, one in Burbank, Calif., that could still play that film.” Why exactly was seeing Ray Milland in 3-D a revelation? “‘It was like theater,’ Mr. Luhrmann said.”

Hmmm. He seems to be going in a different direction entirely. Maybe it’s not the literary style that matters? Maybe the thrill of getting up close and personal with Leonardo DiCaprio is enough? A lot of people are betting a lot of money that it is. How much money? According to Mr. Cieply, The Great Gatsby “. . . was shot in Australia, with a budget of roughly $125 million before government rebates.” So, even if moviegoers stay away in droves, Australian citizens will have the thrill of watching their tax dollars go down the drain clockwise (or so they say.)

To his credit, Mr. Luhrmann admits the project is not without controversy. “But Fitzgerald, he insisted, would have approved. ‘He was a modernist,’ Mr. Luhrmann said, ‘He was very influenced by the cinema.’” I’ll say. Within three years of moving to Hollywood to work as a screenwriter, F. Scott Fitzgerald had drunk himself to death.