While this much-maligned
adaption of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic Jazz Age novel is highly problematic,
it’s not the disaster its reputation might suggest. And while the movie’s
biggest shortcomings are indecisive direction and poorly conceived leading
roles, it must be acknowledged that the source material’s inherent ambiguity
prevents easy translation to the cinematic medium.
The basics of the movie’s
storyline are intact from the novel. In 1920s Long Island, carefree young
socialite Daisy Buchanan (Mia Farrow) endures a financially comfortable but loveless
marriage to the abusive and adulterous Tom Buchanan (Bruce Dern). One summer,
Daisy’s life is brightened by the arrival on Long Island of a favorite cousin, comparatively
penniless Nick Carraway (Sam Waterston). Nick resides in a small cottage next
to the palatial estate of Jay Gatsby (Robert Redford), a mystery man who throws
lavish parties that he doesn’t attend.
Jay befriends Nick as a means of
arranging a meeting with Daisy, whom we learn was in love with Jay prior to her
marriage. The Daisy/Jay romance was originally thwarted by Jay’s poverty, so in
the intervening period he acquired great wealth through dubious means. A
dreamer mired in the past, Jay hopes to steal Daisy away from her unworthy
husband and reclaim the idylls of yesteryear. Fitzgerald’s novel is a
meditation on the blithe manner in which the rich trifle with the lives of the
poor, and the book explores such rich themes as ambition, jealousy,
self-delusion, and self-destruction.
The screenplay, credited to Francis Ford
Coppola but reportedly tweaked by director Jack Clayton and producer David
Merrick, simplifies Fitzgerald’s story in hurtful ways, accentuating some of
the novel’s least interesting aspects—the seductive glamour of Roaring ’20s
clothing, the silly revelry of Prohibition-era parties, the trashy extremes of
a subplot involving Tom’s déclassé mistress, Myrtle Wilson (Karen Black).
Clearly, when the adaptation of a book famed for its internal qualities gets
mired in surfaces, there’s a major disconnect on some level.
Furthermore, it’s
no coincidence that Clayton didn’t direct another Hollywood movie for nearly a
decade after The Great Gatsby: His
storytelling is so awkward that he sometimes contrives complex tracking shots
that land in the wrong place, with a key character obscured while delivering
dialogue, and Clayton gets completely lost during party scenes, lingering on
unimportant details like the flailing hem of a flapper’s skirt while she’s
doing the Charleston.
The lead performances are similarly unfocused. Farrow is
far too stilted to evoke Daisy’s signature quality of intoxicating carelessness,
and Farrow’s clumsy reactions during the most dramatic scenes recall the
over-the-top mugging of silent films. Redford fares better, nailing several
important nuances, though he seems like he’s in a different movie from everyone
else—he’s striving for quiet depth while other actors settle for loud melodrama.
Waterston finds a comfortable middle ground between the extremes of Farrow’s
and Redford’s performances, and the scenes between him and Redford are the
movie’s best.
Dern is very good, too, though he’s boxed in by a one-note
characterization, and supporting player Scott Wilson is quietly moving in a key
role. As for Black, there’s a reason a punk band bears the ironic name The
Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black—the operatic style she displays here is an
acquired taste.
The commercial and critical failure of this movie was enough to
scare Hollywood away from Fitzgerald’s book for decades, as had happened
previously with a reckless 1949 adaptation starring Alan Ladd; notwithstanding
a bland TV version broadcast in 2000, Hollywood avoided The Great Gatsby until 2012, when flamboyant director Baz Luhrmann
mounted a lavish new version (in 3D!) starring Leonardo Di Caprio as Gatsby.
The Great Gatsby: FUNKY
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