As Susan King points out in the Los Angeles Times, David Fincher's The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which is based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald that first appeared in Collier's magazine in 1922, represents the latest development in an intense, dysfunctional love affair between Hollywood and Fitzgerald that goes right back to the days when the author was alive and the hottest thing in publishing. King quotes Matthew J. Bruccoli, editor of Fitzgerald's published notebooks and correspondence, as saying that Fitzgerald, who claimed to have come up with the idea of a man born old and growing younger through the years based on a remark by Mark Twain, was "probably attracted to this [fantasy] form by its tension between romanticism and realism, for the challenge of fantasy is to make events convincing." But maybe he was just looking for a fresh spin on the way that youth slips away, which was one of the writer's obsessions for all his short life. Fitzgerald, who from the evidence of those notebooks and letters, had begun complaining that his best years were past him as early as his twenties, was once so great a literary celebrity that he and his wife, Zelda, were given screen tests and offered the chance to star in a silent version of his novel This Side of Paradise. They turned the offer down; Gore Vidal has written that "like so many romantics, then and now, the Fitzgeralds did not want to go through the grim boring business of becoming movie stars. Rather they wanted to live as if they were inside a movie... Each lived long enough and suffered enough to realize that movies of that sort are to be made or seen, not lived. But by then she was in a sanitarium full-time and he was a movie hack."

When Fitzerald returned to Hollywood in the '30s to work as a screenwriter, he was a has-been in need of money; his private life was a mess and his career had begun to slide downward with the commercial failure of his greatest book, The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald was genuinely interested in doing good work for the movies--unlike, say, William Faulkner, who made no bones about just being there for the money and who, coincidentally or not, wound up getting credit for having worked on some pretty good movies. Fitzgerald's only screen credit was as co-writer of Three Comrades, a 1938 adaptation of an Erich Maria Remarque novel, directed by Frank Borzage. Two years later, he died, following his second heart attack, at 44. According to Vidal, Fitzgerald may have run afoul of his boss, "the boy genius Irving Thalberg, whose "tasteful" films (The Barretts of Wimpole Street) were much admired in those days. On one occasion (recorded in the story 'Crazy Sunday') Fitzgerald held riveted a party at the Thalbergs with a drunken comedy number. Movie stars do not like to be upstaged by mere writers, especially drunk writers. But next day, the hostess, the ever-gracious Norma Shearer, wired Fitzgerald (no doubt after an apologetic mea culpa that has not survived), "I thought you were one of the most agreeable persons at our tea." In Hollywood that means you're fired; he was fired.

When Hollywood at the actual, still-living Fitzgerald nestled in its bosom, it may not have been able to overcome its natural aversion to the aura he then had as a washed-up failure--an aversion that Fitzgerald shared, and that may have contributed to his physical deterioration as much as the fast living and his alcoholism. But it still loved his stories about scandal and blighted romance among the rich and the beautiful: it rushed to turn them into movies when they were hot off the presses and then, after his death, was quick to reconceive them as nostalgic odes to a vanished time. Leading the league in film adaptations is Fitzgerald's masterpiece The Great Gatsby, which Baz Luhrmann is currently threatening to film. It's a little hard to gauge Hollywood's track record with this book, because the first, silent adaptation, made in 1926 with Warner Baxter in the title role, has been lost, and the first sound version, made in 1949 with Alan Ladd in the lead and Elliott Nugent (no relation) directing, was pulled from distribution when the 1974 Robert Redford Gatsby was released and has been little seen since. The Redford movie, which was much-hyped at the time, was so long on expensive period detail and production values and so short on emotion, depth, and poetic feeling that it was as if it had been written by the Fitzgerald of The Beautiful and the Damned, a tyro whose greatest gift was for snappy titles. The second most popular Fitzgerald novel among would-be film adapters is probably Tender Is the Night, which was made into a bad movie in 1962 and a somewhat better TV miniseries in 1985, with a script by Dennis Potter. In a lighter key, in 1977 Joan Micklin Silver made an hour-long TV film for PBS based on the short story Bernice Bobs Her Hair; it contains tickling performances by Shelley Duvall as a country mouse cousin and Veronica Carthwright as the citified relation driven to jealousy by her toothy charms.



There's also a whole subgenre of attempt to capture some of what Fitzgerald had to say, in the writing he did in his last years, about Hollywood while he was there, in the process of being ground up in the gears of the machine itself. It's not his best work, but Hollywood is always suitably impressed with a genuine great writer deems Hollywood a fit subject for him to grapple with. The great white whale is The Last Tycoon, Fitzgerald's unfinished attemtpt at a Hollywood novel, with a Thalberg-like studio chief as its hero. It's one of the ironies of both men's careers that Fitzgerald had it in him to buy the hype surrounding Thalberg as the most culturally sophisticated of the studio bosses and to try to turn him into a tragic hero, even while Thalberg was shafting him, just as he'd shafted his other betters, from Erich von Stroheim to the Marx Brothers. The 1976 movie version, adapted by Harold Pinter and starring Robert De Niro, was the last movie directed by Elia Kazan; it's a stiff, largely because the filmmakers were too reverential towards the material to dare to flesh out Fitzgerald's incomplete novel and turn it into a story. (A 1959 TV version was directed by Ted Kotcheff and starred John Ireland.) And Christopher Lloyd played Pat Hobby, the hack-screenwriter antihero of a series of stories--attempted comedies that Fitzgerald must have ground out in a grumpy, self-lacerating mood--in a 1987 film shown on PBS as part of its Tales from the Hollywood Hills anthology series.

But as Vidal wrote, some people would rather live the movies than make them, and some would rather bypass the art in favor of gossipy dreams about the artist. That's the idea behind F. Scott Fitzgerald and "The Last of the Belles", a 1974 TV movie that fuses an adaptation of the title story with Richard Chamberlain playing the young Scott as he romances Blythe Danner's Zelda, and another TV film, 1976's F. Scott Fitzgerald in Hollywood, which dispenses with the fictional adaptations and just dives right in to scenes of the dissipated Scott (played by Jason Miller, with Tuesday Weld as Zelda and Julia Foster as his Hollywood mistress, Sheila Graham) reeling around Hollywood in a half-potted stupor. Neither film is very good, but the casting directors can congratulate themselves on hiring two very different actors, neither of whom looked a thing like Fitzgerald, to represent the two popular fantasies of how he was at either end of his famous life: chipper and civilized as young Dr. Kildaire when starting out and as gaunt and pathetic as a bad playwright turned John Garfield imitator at the end. It probably says something about the mysteries of creation that, even when Fitzgerald adaptations are good, none of them really convey as much of his style and feeling as the work he himself did for the script of Three Comrades, just as it probably says something about the frustrating nature of writing for movies that, even with Fitzgerald's fingerprints on it, Three Comrades is still mostly a terrible movie.