The Great Gatsby (1974)

The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite novels. F. Scott Fitzgerald's rich masterpiece functions on multiple levels: a deconstruction of the American Dream, a condemnation of high society decadence, a tragedy showing the price of obsession. Yet the five extant film adaptations are forgettable clunkers, from a '20s silent version to the hip-hop inflected G. (2002). I've been roped into seeing Baz Luhrmann's gaudy-looking adaptation this weekend. Forgive me for doubting the Moulin Rouge! auteur's appropriateness for this literary classic.

The most famous version is Jack Clayton's 1974 take. This Gatsby is a petrified rendering of the novel's most obvious aspects, well-made but dull. Strict literary fidelity at the expense of the cinematic results in a pedestrian exercise.

Stock broker Nick Carraway (Sam Waterston) makes the acquaintance of Jay Gatsby (Robert Redford), a mysterious millionaire who throws swanky parties on Long Island but never attends himself. Through Nick, Gatsby reunites with his old flame Daisy (Mia Farrow), trapped in an unhappy marriage with snobbish, unfaithful Tom Buchanan (Bruce Dern). Tom gets suspicious, digging into Gatsby's past, dredging up ties to organized crime. Tragedy strikes when Tom's affair with lower class Myrtle Wilson (Karen Black) results in an accident.

The obvious problem is that Gatsby's too damned literal. Francis Ford Coppola's script remains painfully reverent to the source material, trying unsuccessfully to render Fitzgerald's rich interior world. The book requires Nick's fly-on-the-wall narration; the movie drowns in it, his unnecessary presence weighing down every scene. Gatsby clumsily tells Nick his background, other bits filled in by mechanical flashbacks. Characters endlessly declaim exposition and recite Fitzgerald's prose without conviction. The show takes on a Classics Illustrated feel, rigidly faithful but lifeless.

The literalness extends to the imagery. Fitzgerald's poetic symbolism reads beautifully on the page, conjuring up misty visions of midnight parties, bygone opulence and broken dreams. In the directness of film, touches like Daisy's green light (accompanied by an abrasive musical sting), the billboard eyeglasses and amorous jello moulds seem gauche. The Wilsons' ratty gas station feels more appropriate to Bonnie and Clyde than upscale Long Island; how on Earth would Tom and Myrtle have met? Through clunky presentation, Gatsby forfeits credibility the novel effortlessly earns.

It must be said Clayton mounts a beautiful production. The sumptuous costumes, parties and upscale mansions are gorgeously presented by David Lean's collaborator John Box. Backed by Nelson Riddle's jazz-infused score and its appealing leads, Gatsby provides the glamorous spectacle expected of a '20s period piece. Yet this beauty undercuts Fitzgerald's satirical intent: you don't ridicule the rich by making them desirable. I could imagine Luchino Visconti or Billy Wilder nailing Gatsby; Clayton misses the point.

Robert Redford gives a commendable interpretation. He handles the mealy-mouthed script with conviction, suggesting Gatsby's hidden depths and inner turmoil through pointed delivery and meaningful glances. At the same time, having someone with Redford's screen baggage play a character designed as a cipher feels awkward. A sharper adaptation might have resulted in one of Redford's best performances. Instead, he's respectable rather than impressive.

Mia Farrow's fine, but Daisy proves too much of a featherweight to generate interest. The best that can be said of Sam Waterston is he gives a useless part dignity. Lanky Bruce Dern feels miscast as a snotty, football-playing blue blood. Karen Black (Family Plot) makes the strongest impression, investing Myrtle with desperation and low cunning. Scott Wilson (In Cold Blood) has some powerful scenes that seem imported from another movie. Howard Da Silva (Meyer Wolfsheim, a Jewish gangster) previously appeared in a 1949 adaptation.

The Great Gatsby is a handsomely mounted bore. Here's hoping that the new version gets the story right - though I'm not holding my breath.