Review: The Great Gatsby

Runtime: 143 minutes

IF F Scott Fitzgerald's great American novel was an elegantly calibrated ode to the jazz age then Baz Luhrmann's adaptation is a greetings card to the Beyonce era, one of those novelty affairs that telegraphs its sentiments in lurid capitals and tops off the show with a tinny jingle in the middle. While fun for seconds, it will never be a joy forever.

First, the upside. Luhrmann's Gatsby is gorgeously realised, with the Moulin Rouge director being to homes and gardens what Ziegfeld was to dance scenes. And it is not quite as horrific as Fitzgerald purists – there being no other kind – might have feared. Luhrmann does indeed place pop in the 1920s, and takes several more liberties besides, but no-one reaches for Google to find out how the mysterious Gatsby made his millions. There are limits, even for the director of Strictly Ballroom.

For all that, one leaves Luhrmann's take on Fitzgerald's novel wondering why he bothered spending all that money to say so desperately little. Though he shows signs towards the end of grasping the point of Gatsby, that it is a story about the American love affair with hope, he is too content to take the easy route and play it like a simple boy-meets-girl yarn with cool clothes and fireworks.

At least Luhrmann can comfort himself that he is not the first director to square up to Gatsby and come off the loser. There have been three big screen versions: a silent from 1926; a 1949 picture with Alan Ladd as the man in the pink suit; and the most famous adaptation of all, a 1974 attempt with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow as the beautiful and damnable Daisy Buchanan, the object of Gatsby's desire. The 1974 picture, with a screenplay by Francis Ford Coppola, was a dreadfully teak affair.

Here, Fitzgerald worshippers with a mind to take umbrage will have their needs satisfied from the opening moments as Carraway begins relating the tale from a picturesquely snow-covered hospital. As the flakes and memories swirl the film goes into that creaky old standby, the flashback. It is a hackneyed way in, but at least it shows Luhrmann is trying to make this an image-driven, movie director's take on Gatsby, not a university tutorial.

From there we dive into the roaring Twenties, and in Luhrmann's hands they certainly do make a racket. He films at the speed of an old newsreel, with cars and people going at too fast a clip. When he gets to the party scenes, he prefers a leisurely stroll among the gyrating guests, pausing here and there for some slo-mo, or a swoop from on high to take in the fabulousness of it all. And it is fabulous. Between the palatial setting, the lavish costumes, the cast of as close to thousands as makes no matter, dosh has clearly been spent. Snowflakes aside, the 3D is pointless but then it generally is.

For a little while this show without punch satisfies. The awkward thing about making a movie, however, is that sooner or later characters have to start saying things, a story is required to take shape. Without that, all we are looking at is a glorified music video.

It is when mouths begin to open that the trouble starts. The screenplay has all the subtlety of a circus barker, with lines such as: "This is Jordan, a famous golfer", or: "You be careful on those tables, senator".

No-one quite says, "Hey guys, Wall Street is going to crash in a few years, so you might want to think again about your worship of Mammon and celebrity", but you get the idea. What delicacy there is has gone on the music, where modern songs happily dance cheek to cheek with the score by Glasgow's Craig Armstrong.

Characters are introduced and dispensed with quickly, though in some cases not quickly enough. Maguire is a fine fit as the essentially decent Carraway, as is Mulligan as Daisy. Unlike Farrow, who was so wet she might have been playing a Scottish summer, Mulligan brings a little heft to the party. Not so winning are Joel Edgerton as Tom Buchanan, Daisy's bullish husband, who chews the scenery like a starving man, and Isla Fisher, playing his mistress, whose take on a New Yoik accent is straight outta da funny papers, wiseguy.

But the man we've all come to see is Gatsby, played by Leonardo DiCaprio. While he is better than Redford – who looked too old for the part – he is a long way from being Gatsby enough. His natural movie star luminescence lends itself well to the role (who was Gatsby but the greatest actor of all?), but like everyone else in the cast, DiCaprio wears his character too obviously, like a kid playing dress up.

When he is not giving away secrets personally, the clodhopping screenplay does it for him. Gatsby is nothing if he is not an enigma, and in Luhrmann's hands he is never an enigma.

With mystery melting away, the film tears through the plot as though the end of a mini-series, rather than an era, is nigh. Onwards we venture, all attempts at subtlety gone, a film about shallow people that is only too obviously out of its depth.

Review

The Great Gatsby

HH