The Great Gatsby -2013- [QUICK]

Perhaps the most controversial element of The Great Gatsby -2013- is its soundtrack. Executive produced by Jay-Z, the album features Jack White’s snarling blues, Beyoncé and André 3000’s haunting cover of “Back to Black,” and Lana Del Rey’s anthemic “Young and Beautiful.”

Purists initially recoiled. Rap and jazz? In a Fitzgerald adaptation? But Luhrmann’s argument is historically sound. In the 1920s, jazz was considered rebellious, dangerous, and low-class—the hip-hop of its era. By scoring Gatsby’s arrival with Kanye West’s “No Church in the Wild,” Luhrmann signals that Gatsby’s wealth is nouveau, illegitimate, and thrilling. When Gatsby and Daisy dance waltz-like to “Young and Beautiful,” the song’s melancholy mirrors the character’s fear of time—Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?

Director: Baz Luhrmann Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobey Maguire, Carey Mulligan, Joel Edgerton Genre: Drama / Romance

The saving grace of Luhrmann’s style-over-substance tendencies is the cast, particularly the two leads.

Leonardo DiCaprio is the definitive Jay Gatsby. He captures the character’s enigmatic charisma and the desperate, nervous energy bubbling beneath the expensive suits. His portrayal of Gatsby’s obsession is heartbreaking; he is a man who built an empire on a foundation of sand just to impress a girl who doesn't deserve it. His introduction—turning around to the sound of "Gatsby?... The Gatsby?" accompanied by fireworks and Gershwin—is one of the most iconic character introductions in modern cinema. The Great Gatsby -2013-

Tobey Maguire gives a nuanced performance as Nick Carraway. Often the dullest character in adaptations, Maguire’s Nick is a moral compass who slowly unravels. While the framing device of him writing the book in a sanitarium is a heavy-handed addition, Maguire sells the heartbreak of a man witnessing a tragedy.

Carey Mulligan and Joel Edgerton are solid, though Mulligan’s Daisy lacks the ethereal, careless quality that makes her so dangerous in the book. She feels too grounded. Edgerton, however, is perfectly cast as Tom Buchanan, embodying the physical threat and "careless people" arrogance of old money.

Lost in the noise of the visual spectacle was a performance of quiet devastation. Leonardo DiCaprio, at the peak of his movie-star power, does something strange: he plays Jay Gatsby as a bundle of anxious tics. This Gatsby doesn’t just throw parties; he flinches when Tom Buchanan mentions “old money.” He practices a casual lean against a mantelpiece until it looks like a seizure. He calls Nick “old sport” with the desperation of a man memorizing a script in a foreign language.

In the crucial scene—the hotel room confrontation—DiCaprio’s veneer shatters. When he roars, “She only married you because I was poor!” it is not the roar of a gangster. It is the sob of a boy who sold illegal bonds just to kiss a girl who smelled of pearls. It is the most faithful moment in the entire film, because Luhrmann finally stops the music. All we hear is glass breaking and a dream dying. Perhaps the most controversial element of The Great

However, the film is not perfect. Tobey Maguire’s Nick Carraway feels oddly wooden, acting more as a tourist than a participant. Furthermore, the decision to frame the entire story as a flashback from a sanitarium (where Nick is writing a memoir to cure his alcoholism) adds a layer of framing that feels unnecessary.

But the film’s greatest triumph is its final five minutes. As DiCaprio watches the green light fade, Luhrmann finally quiets the chaos. The music stops. The camera slows down. We are left with the words of Fitzgerald, spoken verbatim over a snowy dock:

"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us."

In that moment, Luhrmann stops trying to reinvent Fitzgerald and simply serves him. It is a devastatingly quiet ending to a deafeningly loud movie. In a Fitzgerald adaptation

To understand the film, one must understand its director. Baz Luhrmann has never been a preservationist. He is a deconstructionist in a tuxedo, the kind of artist who looks at a Victorian romance (Moulin Rouge!) and thinks, “This needs Elton John.” For Gatsby, he approached Fitzgerald’s text not as a museum artifact, but as a living, breathing myth.

The result is not a period piece. It is a period feeling.

Luhrmann’s Jazz Age is not the sepia-toned, banjo-strumming nostalgia of the Robert Redford version (1974). His 1922 New York is a roaring hallucination: skyscrapers sprout overnight like weeds, flapper dresses are bejeweled with CGI, and the parties at West Egg are less social gatherings than EDM-fueled riots. The Charleston is choreographed like a mosh pit. The champagne flows in slow-motion geysers.

This was the film’s greatest sin to purists. Fitzgerald’s novel is about the hollowness beneath the glitter. Luhrmann’s film is the glitter.

Or so it seemed.