If Baz Luhrmann intended this adaptation of the F Scott Fitzgerald meditation on immorality and corruption in the Jazz Age to be little more than uber-camp homage to screwball comedy: job done. If, however, he wanted a faithful retelling of the complex inner-life of a man in lust with power at any cost and the facile nature of rich empty lifestyles in America then this fails; indeed, the only time any real emotional resonance emerges is ten minutes into the end—and at nearly two and a half hours, that is just not good enough.
Leonardo DiCaprio as millionaire Jay Gatsby is woefully miscast. He can do smug and little else under Luhrmann’s direction until the film’s death rattle—it doesn’t help that he is morphing into Orson Welles in a Colonel Sanders suit- incredibly distracting. The love scenes with Daisy (an okay, if submissive, Carey Mulligan) never really ignite despite the requisite build-up of trying to win her back.
There are moments which dazzle: the parties are beautifully staged, energetic and eye-popping in visual splendour, a glittering explosion of ticker tape, tit tape and fireworks as the partygoers shimmy in one jelly-like mass in Gatsby’s grand home and gardens. The Josephine Baker-esque dancers are true to the era, although the shapes they throw are more Beyonce than Charleston.
Even the novel’s central motifs, sexual double standards, racism, colonialism and chasing an elusive American Dream for its own sake, are only briefly alluded to. Joel Edgerton as Daisy’s immoral husband Tom seems pantomime villain—even when sniffing around his whore/mistress Myrtle (Isla Fisher, upstaged by her push-up bra at every turn). Tobey Maguire’s Nick Carraway is gutless and too wide-eyed, but at least hints at some depth. Only the beautiful Jordan Baker (a stunning Elizabeth Debicki) the catalyst for getting Jay and Daisy back together, is really subtle, whether wounded or louche, and underplays it all, giving a flavour of how the film could have gone.
Ultimately, what emerges is a TV movie best suited to a Sunday afternoon. The Great Gatsby is like pretty costume jewellery: opulent, shiny and gorgeous to look at—but worthless.
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