All Flame With no Real Fire

Rating: 3/10 (8 March 2017)

Baz Luhrmann's interpretation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's 1925 novel "The Great Gatsby" is all flare with no real fire. In his attempts to focus on the pizazz and vibrancy that many associate with the Roaring Twenties, and focus on that alone, Luhrmann dismisses any substantial effort to analyze the facetious, layered veneer of the world around our characters. He is able to get by with basic qualities of the original text, such as the events of the novel being primarily told through the perspective and understanding of Nick Carraway, who isn't even the center protagonist, but what he does retain can be described as "duhs" and not even worth a mention.
This is not to say, regardless, that every facet of the film shatters at the slightest critical touch. The vibrant lights and colours of the splendid Long Island, made contrasted by the dark, grey, and melancholy Valley of Ashes, are almost exactly how this viewer had pictured them as he read the novel, and several of the film's performances (namely Mr. Maguire as the shy, evidently out-of-place Nick Carraway, and Miss Debicki as the smouldering, seductive Jordan Baker) feel ripped straight from the pages of the novel. Unfortunately, I myself never could shake the uneasy feeling that Mr. Leo DiCaprio was doing a retread of a character he's done in a movie before. You should not be blamed for stumbling in during Gatsby's introduction thinking for a few seconds you are watching Titanic.
On to where the film crumbles, collapses, and comes crashing down-most notably, the pacing is absolutely dreadful, and dreadful absolutely. The film never stops striking you as being rushed along, as if Luhrmann's primary goal is to use as many of the novel's noteworthy quotations as possible more so than achieving any deeper introspection into the flaws of our protagonists in a flawed world of corruption, theatrics, and dreams long past. This viewer never once, in the entirety of his viewing experience, felt as if the novel's most illustrious and emotionally climactic moments were given the time deserved to trickle into the viewer's emotions themselves. I am aware of Gatsby's terminal fate occurring immediately just before the novel's closing chapter, but five minutes is simply not enough to acknowledge his isolation in death-merely removing every other funeral attendee from the novel except for Nick does not make me less aware of that fact, in spite of it in all truth being one of the major changes I found myself leaning favourably towards-the sudden interruption of Owl Eyes' arrival in the novel I could have done without. I should furthermore make mention of my dissatisfaction of the film's score-that strange mixture of hip-hop and electronic music does not become jazz purely by adding a trumpet in the background, much in the same respect that adding a symphony to a "Disturbed" song does not a Beethoven piece make.
The paramount issue this adaptation faces, nevertheless, is how it wholly fails to translate the novel's topics on the American Dream and the sick, poisoned world that hides behind its bright, attractive exterior. Only by the end of the picture does the Green Light, the most notorious symbol of the novel, step out to become more than a secondary object that exists predominantly for our characters to point out so the director can brag about how faithful his adaptation is. The movie's gross dearth of subdued reflection left this viewer feeling broken nosed, understanding that he had obtained nothing of value from the experience except for appreciating the worth of director that is forced to wave his arms, bellowing, "This is how you wanted to see it come to life!!" because he lacks the aptitude to offer anything beyond dazzling white noise-that is, none.
I think there is one moment of the film that bar none demonstrates my argument better than any other. Once Nick Carraway is invited to the house of our prestigious protagonist, we are treated to what feels like 10 minutes of long, uninterrupted huzzah and celebration, during which we meet our protagonist, and during which Baz obtains the opportunity to revel in his own sets and lights. After this, as Nick is set to leave, a loud crash is heard, and the camera turns to the now-ditched Owl Eyesfor about 2 seconds, before it's time to head home. No deeper examination, no analysis of the partygoers savage debauchery, no moment to give Nick any time to question the company he is in; no, it's played for laughs before it's immediately time to retire for the night, because Baz Luhrmann likes shiny keys, and especially likes to jangle them in front of your stupefied face to seduce you into a trance-like state, because his efforts fall apart once you decide to think critically.
It makes me weep to think of the appalling reality of this reinterpretation undeniably going to be the one recognized by current and future consumers of media. It is empty, narrow, dense, loud, moronic, witless, benign, and most of all unworthy to even kiss Fitzgerald's feet, and it is with no falter of my judgment that I proclaim this film to have fizzled out faster than the era it is set in.