The 1974 version
comes with high pedigree: Francis Ford Coppola has his name on the screenplay,
and the top-line stars are Robert Redford and Mia Farrow, both at career highs,
as the deeply unknowable titular character and the possibly soulless Daisy, she
the woman of his desires/obsessions/ past. Sam Waterston is our hero/narrator,
Nick. Redford as the make-you-swoon Gatsby? Cannot go wrong, right? “Well, of
course you can.” This is a dud. My wife loves it. I don’t. The book zings with
jazz and satire, hidden meanings, the notion that on your third read you catch
new-to-you symbolism and connections. Never has an attack on excess come off
as empty. Redford -– great actor -– is stiff and wrong as Gatsby, with Farrow
over-acting the hysterics. Director Jack Clayton nails the look of the era of
loud jazz, loose morals, and great wealth -– Gatsby’s house is the Rosecliff
House in Newport, Rhode Island, and my wife and I have been there -– but it
trudges along slow and empty. That moment at the end comes not as tragic and
sickeningly ironic, but just tepid as … pool water. Dig, though, Scott Wilson
as a wronged man. C
Baz
Luhrmann’s version is all excess, an ironic eyebrow raiser as the novel attacks
the very notion of flash and glitter as suffocating. Recall the absinth kicks
of “Moulin Rouge!”? This “Gatsby” is all about that, in 3D. We open with narrator
Nick (Tobey Maguire) as a novelist/patient inside a sanitarium, a wrecked shell
encouraged to write of the incident that derailed his life: His dealings with
mysterious Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio), waif cousin Daisy (Carey Mulligan) and
her husband (Joel Edgerton). Yes, McGuire is playing Nick as Fitzgerald. How
quaint. Luhrmann smartly mines deeper, fuller emotions, and DiCaprio nails
the role of a delusional man who drops the term “old sport!,” but has no idea what
it means, and does not know his life’s goal is a dead end. In a flip from the ’74
version, it is Maguire who is miscast, giving a “Spider-Man”-era wide-eyed,
gawky performance that looks ridiculous on a man his age. The hip-hop fueled
parties staged by Luhrmann drown satire, while the visual barrage
of Nick’s written words floating in air reminded me of the quiet of reading
a book. There is no quiet here. Only noise. C+
