I almost don’t think it’s fair to write about Michael Farris Smith’s Nick, but I read it, so I’m going to. And really, Smith brought it on himself. If you can’t tell by the title and copycat cover, Nick is a prequel to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. It presumes to document Nick’s experiences during World War 1, a period a few years before the events in Gatsby.
I don’t hate on fanfic. I occasionally read some when I was younger. But the thing about fanfic that makes it fun is its winking knowledge of the original. Harry Potter fanfic better have wizards and spells and references to Hogwarts or Voldemort. Harry Potter fanfic that details Harry’s second grade year where he’s rightly diagnosed with bipolar disorder and Dudley recovers from leukemia would be crap. Not primarily because of the subject matter, but because it presumes to play on Rowling's universe without honoring the world she's created.
That problem plagues Nick and ultimately results in a book that’s crap. It’s not worth the space to describe in detail, but Smith’s Nick is unrecognizable as Fitzgerald’s Nick. Other than the barest biographical details (both from the Midwest, went to Yale, are in the war), the men have nothing in common. Smith’s Nick is traumatized by an obsessive Parisian love affair (that ends after a home-performed abortion) AND the horrors of trench warfare AND deadly arson he witnesses in New Orleans. He witnesses multiple people experience trauma and all respond in the most extreme ways imaginable. He nearly kills a man.
If logic follows, apparently two years later Nick moves to New York City, never thinks of or references any of these events again, and lives benignly—and with no reaction beyond voiced disapproval—as some rich people are assholes. Why would he even feel disgust at the events that occur in Gatsby after all he's seen in Smith's version?
Even worse, easy plot points to integrate are ignored! Fitzgerald’s Daisy says there’s rumors Nick is engaged. He denies them, but he also tells us he’s writing letters home to a girl and signing them “love, Nick.” This “girlfriend” doesn’t even exist in Nick.
After ignoring Fitzgerald’s Gatsby for the entire novel, Smith attempts to make up for it in the last chapter, suggesting Nick has PTSD and is repressed or something--so, uh, that's why none of this is ever mentioned in Gatsby! Smith then has Nick move to NYC and hold out his hand to the green light (oh, just like Gatsby! I get it! Smith figured out fanfic in the last five pages). It’s too little and too cheesy too late.
It’s easy to bash the book. I get that Smith and his publishers were in a quandary. Call it Nick and mimic that iconic cover, and you’re guaranteed sales—but everyone who buys it will do so because they love Gatsby and thus will hate your book. Or, ditch the Gatsby references, call it “Lots of Trauma in the ‘20s” and then the ten people who buy it might like it.
I’ve tried to consider that second perspective. As a narrative, Smith's book in no way needs Gatsby. So, shorn of those comparisons, is it any good?
It’s hard to say, as I struggled to get over my gut-reaction hatred. Smith attempts a Hemingway style (lots of “and’s” and straightforward yet "deep" prose and dialogue), but all I could think was “First Fitzgerald and now Hemingway, you monster!!” I haven’t even named the bizarre cast of characters, but all act so extreme that it was hard to recognize them as human. Gatsby’s obsession with Daisy feels earned and real—you understand what it means to him and why. Nick’s obsession with his poor Parisian girlfriend is the exact opposite. Why is he obsessed after a few days together? No idea. By the second half of the book, we even regularly leave Nick’s point of view to follow a deranged New Orleans couple who cause a lot of deaths because they’re sad.
I wouldn’t recommend the book to anyone. Smith and his publisher have undoubtedly cashed in on Gatsby’s entry into public domain. By the logic of this book, Fitzgerald’s ghost should probably burn down all book stores.
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