First and last 100 pages are exquisite - as good as anything I've ever read. Middle section bogs down in some repetition and tedious dialogue as the world passes the Ambersons by and they fritter away their lives in clueless trivialities. Many readers will not be able to stand the uncompromising stubbornness of the spoiled Georgie Amberson Minafer. All in all, what a talent for description and grasp of the novel's time Tarkington has. The style pulls you right along, simple yet not simplistic. The subtitle of the book, written in 1918, might have been "How the Automobile Effed up America" (both the environment and the communal way of life). Lots of prophecy in that.
[After reading the book, I thought a fresh revisit of the famous Orson Welles 1942 film version would be illuminating, and I have to say that seeing the film on the heels of this reading changed my perception of the film, for the better. I'd always admired the film, but assumed due to RKO's infamous interference and cutting that the last part of the movie did not jibe with the book and was weak, but this turns out not to be true. After watching the movie I was astonished at the skill of Robert Wise and the RKO editors for managing to keep virtually the entire plot, key scenes and major dialogue exchanges from the book in the film. Where the film is weak in comparison to the book is in conveying how Tarkington expresses the gradual financial, social, and personal downfall of the Ambersons, including their environs and their place as well-known pillars of the community. This takes place incrementally in the book, so that the reader is aware of the acidic decay taking place while the Ambersons seem clueless to it, but it is virtually unremarked in the film until the final minutes, where it is very abrupt and not fully explored in all its implications. Welles gets the mood and plot right, but skimps somewhat on the thematic elements.
Also, Tarkington's book makes you feel sorry for George Amberson Minafer when he does get his comeuppance, even though you've hated him throughout the book. I don't get that same sense in the film version. I also believe the "true to my own true love" quote at the end of the film (which is the same as in the book) is open to a different, and wrong, interpretation in the film. I always thought that the film was implying that Eugene Morgan and Aunt Fanny---looking dewey eyed at one another---were somehow going to thus hook up, which seems all wrong. In the book, it is clear that his "true love" remains the dead Isabelle Amberson Minafer. By making peace with her son (and Eugene's enemy) George Amberson Minafer, he is thus remaining true to his own true love. The movie seems to twist this for the sake of a happy ending, though perhaps I misread that. Anyway, the film is no substitute for the book, but it is perfectly realized and cast, and both book and film amplify and enlighten aspects of each.:] -EG
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FYI: A few of my favorite, thoughtful passages from the book:
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"I'm not sure he's wrong about automobiles," he said. "With all their speed forward they may be a step backward in civilization--that is, in spiritual civilization. It may be that they will not add to the beauty of the world, nor to the life of men's souls. I am not sure.
But automobiles have come, and they bring a greater change in our life than most of us suspect. They are here, and almost all outward things are going to be different because of what they bring. They are going to alter war, and they are going to alter peace. I think men's minds are going to be changed in subtle ways because of automobiles; just how, though, I could hardly guess. But you can't have the immense outward changes that they will cause without some inward ones, and it may be that George is right, and that the spiritual alteration will be bad for us.
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There were the little bunty street-cars on the long, single track that went its troubled way among the cobblestones. At the rear door of the car there was no platform, but a step where passengers clung in wet clumps when the weather was bad and the car crowded. The patrons--if not too absent-minded--put their fares into a slot; and no conductor paced the heaving floor, but the driver would rap remindingly with his elbow upon the glass of the door to his little open platform if the nickels and the passengers did not appear to coincide in number. A lone mule drew the car, and sometimes
drew it off the track, when the passengers would get out and push it on again. They really owed it courtesies like this, for the car was genially accommodating: a lady could whistle to it from an upstairs window, and the car would halt at once and wait for her while she shut the window, put on her hat and cloak, went downstairs, found an umbrella, told the "girl" what to have for dinner, and came forth from the house.
The previous passengers made little objection to such gallantry on the part of the car: they were wont to expect as much for themselves on like occasion. In good weather the mule pulled the car a mile in a little less than twenty minutes, unless the stops were too long; but when the trolley-car came, doing its mile in five minutes and better, it would wait for nobody. Nor could its passengers have endured such a thing, because the faster they were carried the less time they had to spare!
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"He can try," said Amberson. "He is trying, in fact. I've sat in the shop watching him try for several beautiful afternoons, while outside the windows all Nature was fragrant with spring and smoke. He hums ragtime to himself as he tries, and I think his mind is wandering to something else less tedious--to some new invention in which he'd take more interest."
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The Major was engaged in the profoundest thinking of his life. No business plans which had ever absorbed him could compare in momentousness with the plans that absorbed him now, for he had to plan how to enter the unknown country where he was not even sure of being recognized as an Amberson—not sure of anything, except that Isabel would help him if she could. His absorption produced the outward effect of reverie, but of course it was not. The Major was occupied with the first really important matter that had taken his attention since he came home invalided, after the Gettysburg campaign, and went into business; and he realized
that everything which had worried him or delighted him during this lifetime between then and to-day--all his buying and building and trading and banking--that it all was trifling and waste beside what concerned him now.
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The elevator boy noticed nothing unusual about him and neither did Fanny, when she came in from church with her hat ruined, an hour later. And yet something had happened--a thing which, years ago, had been the eagerest hope of many, many good citizens of the town. They had thought of it, longed for it, hoping acutely that they might live to see the day when it would come to pass. And now it had happened at last: Georgie Minafer had got his come-upance.
He had got it three times filled and running over. The city had rolled over his heart, burying it under, as it rolled over the Major's and buried it under. The city had rolled over the Ambersons and buried them under to the last vestige; and it mattered little that George guessed easily enough that most of the five hundred Most Prominent had paid something substantial "to defray the cost of steel engraving, etc."--the Five Hundred had heaved the final shovelful of soot upon that heap of obscurity wherein the Ambersons were lost forever from sight and history."Quicksilver in a nest of cracks!"
Georgie Minafer had got his come-upance, but the people who had so longed for it were not there to see it, and they never knew it. Those who were still living had forgotten all about it and all about him.