The Great Gatsby

This lavish Hollywood treatment of the Classic F. Scott Fitzgerald novel is a visual and acoustic delight. Nelson Riddle's spellbinding score and the many brilliant camera shots capturing the splendor of an age of excesses and indulgences make for engaging entertainment. Still, the dark story will leave the viewer numb at the eventual (bitter) end. A young Mia Farrow and Robert Redford in the leads, along with excellent performances by Scott Wilson and Bruce Dern, as well as the 70s "femme fatal" staple Karen Black round out the top, with what seems to be hundreds of colorful "flapper" and servant extras in the cast. Everyone fortunate enough to be born or married or mistressed into money is living the "life", not caring about anyone and anything other than fun, fun, fun.

A series of indiscretions (by just about everyone) culminates in the "just desserts", and several deaths. The fact that life of the high and mighty seems to go on without skipping a beat, regardless of anyone's recklessness or involvement, is the tough lesson the author seems to aim for. Without conscience, what have we? All the money will not replace human emotions, though the cash seems to easily take their place. But didn't we have fun....

Looking as if it were plucked from the dreaming ear of an impressionable adolescent with Fitzgerald's novel half-open on his bedstand -- and sometimes sounding, alas, as if it were scored by the guy who did episode #93 of Kojak -- there is no reason why this 1974 adaptation of The Great Gatsby shouldn't be better regarded than it is, or even included among other masterpieces of the fertile period. Well, maybe one: Mia Farrow gives an execrable, vaporish performance as Daisy Buchanan that will make you get down on your knees and thank god that we only have to deal with Gwyneth Paltrow. In a way, though, even Farrow's neuroting fits, because this is Fitzgerald as seen through a Tennesee Williams filter. The character of Myrtle's husband, a cipher in the book, is here a sweaty man in overalls who squeezes an oily rag in his hand whenever he stresses out over his wife's infidelities, which is pretty much all the time. What we film folk might call the Karl Malden character.

Unbeknownst to many, this movie was written by Francis Ford Coppola, and is another crown jewel to add to his annus mirabilis of 1974, when he also wrote and directed The Conversation and The Godfather Part II. And what did you do last year? Here he does a wonderfully subtle job with a thankless task, excising most of the celebrated prose passages and too-famous scenes. There's nothing worse than seeing desperate actors try to bring tension to overly familiar texts -- I can never stifle a groan when any actor says "To be or not to be" -- unless of course it's doing reverent voiceovers of Great American Literature. Both of these fatal errors are mostly avoided, but for anyone who wishes the movie were more faithful, they retain the scene where Daisy weeps over Gatsby's shirts. This episode has an intuitive poetic psychology in the book, but goes over like a lead balloon on screen because we expect clearer motivation from flesh and blood people. Such are the limitations of film. But to keep himself interested, and to prevent the proceedings from feeling too dutiful, Coppola gives strange, heretical tweaks to his notorious source throughout, including an assassination scene that likens Gatsby, brilliantly, to JFK.

I don't know much about director Jack Clayton, except that he also did an ace adaptation of Turn of the Screw, retitled The Innocents... But maybe that's enough. This guy FEELS literature. Nothing in this movie looks less than how you idealized it -- even the sunsets are Jazz Age. Robert Redford, too, perhaps sensing he was born to play this role, doesn't fold under pressure but gives a shrewdly understated performance to match the underwritten character, somehow keeping the myth of Gatsby alive despite his all-too-solid presence. In the scene where we first meet him in his office, his solitude framed by the noises of the revellers down in the garden, he projects both neediness and the intimidating force field that comes with extreme wealth, seemingly without doing anything.

A reviewer below me wondered why the men in this movie would go for the shrill, plain women, and suggested there was a gay subtext. Cool. Then the casting of Mia Farrow is subversive instead of insane. I have to admit, when Sam Waterston as Nick Carraway tells Gatsby "You're better than the whole lot of 'em put together!" his delivery has something, shall we say, flamboyant about it, especially in comparison to his wooden restraint hitherto. It's almost as if he stored up all his energy for that one line, to force us to see what a key moment it is between these two young men, and perhaps what's lost when Gatsby meets his end later the same afternoon. But enough speculation. Here's a movie open to any and all interpretations -- sexual, political, poetical.

A Midwesterner (Sam Waterston) becomes fascinated with his nouveau riche neighbor (Robert Redford), who obsesses over his lost love (Mia Farrow).

What we have here is a big name cast, though not as stylish as Baz Luhrmann's version forty years later. Luhrmann does seem to follow the same plot and use much of the same dialogue, suggesting at the least both enjoyed certain lines from the novel, or perhaps even that Luhrmann used this film as his cue. A few scenes, such as the clothes-tossing, seemed to be a direct borrowing. Also, Redford says "old sport" more naturally than Leonardo DiCaprio.

I have seen some criticism for this film being too literal. So, is being literal good or bad? I imagine if they strayed from the novel there would be just as many critics (or more) complaining... you just cannot win when adapting classic literature (though I personally loved this).

A great use of Karen Black. All I need to say.

The original script allegedly had homosexual undertones, and I think that comes through here. Also, when thinking of this as a tale from an unreliable narrator, it is interesting to wonder what is strictly true and what is puffed up from Nick's obsessive and doting point of view.

This adaptation may have worked with the mute button on, but the cheezy movie-of-the-week score, the shrill cries of Mia Farrow, and the pallid reading by Robert Redford doom this film. Bruce Dern as Tom Buchanan makes as much sense as Jimmie 'J.J.' Walker as Muhammad Ali - the physical strength that defined Tom is totally missing.

The staging, costumes, and incidentals (cars, etc.) are gorgeous, but the beauty of Fitzgerald's prose is nowhere to be found. This must be a difficult work to film, and it shows.

Nowadays, at least from mentions I've seen, 1974's The Great Gatsby is somehow considered a classic. I benefit from having been alive back then and sitting through it in the theater - twice.

When my friend returned from Poland, he wanted to see it. So I went again, reluctantly. When he heard Mia Farrow's shrill voice call "Ni-ick," he said, "0h my God." That about sums it up.

When the character of Nick Carraway, played by Sam Waterston, steals the show, you've got a problem. He was wonderful.

While the film was very pretty to look at, with cinematography by Douglas Slocombe, The Great Gatsby was not a very good movie. It is slow, plodding, and miscast, with none of the lyricism of Fitzgerald's prose present.

Redford is a reserved, passionless Gatsby, and has no chemistry with the whiny Farrow. According to a book I read on the filming, director Jack Clayton chose Farrow because he liked the way she held a glass of champagne. And there we are.

There's no angst, just some pretty scenes, and in the end, one wonders if this is perhaps a book that doesn't adapt well.