(Mild spoiler alert, but if you haven't read the book yet, I have no mercy for you. You've only had about 90 years to do so.)
Anyhow, I have been excited for this movie since the figurative beginning of time (which is literally about a year), despite not reading the book until only last week. In fact, before hearing of the movie, I knew very little about Gatsby; I knew it was a classic, but much like my preconceived notions of The Catcher in the Rye, assumed it was some dry old-person book that had a more appropriate place among pretentious bookshelves than in the hands of a true reader. Usually, classics disappoint me. The Catcher in the Rye was atrocious, in my opinion, and I hope never again to meet its "depressing" acquaintance. Gatsby, however, was something that I did not quite expect.
I can't quite remember how I came about its plotline; possibly it was through learning of Leonardo Dicaprio's golden casting and finally admitting to a friend, "What is this book about, because I haven't the faintest clue but it has the most enticing name and I wish to be a fan." It seemed to me a great mystery, and I'll be honest; I was terrified that I wouldn't like it. I so want to be one of those people who mutters, "Oh, yes, Hemingway, quite the drunk but what a minimalist talent," from behind a glass of champagne at some delectably tasteful soiree, and yet every time I read one of these so-called "great American" whatevers, I find myself disappointed. Granted, I haven't read Hemingway, but it's on my list of Books That I Must Read to Appear Cultured to My Well-Read Friends. Which is a physical list, by the way.
I had high expectations for Gatsby, and I'll admit, they weren't all met. In my opinion the book was much too short and was lacking in description. I say this reluctantly because I didn't want it to end, and also because Fitzgerald's writing is so stunningly eloquent that I do not at all want to chastise him for not delving into lengthy descriptions of the Jazz Age (the Valley of Ashes was one of the best descriptive passages I've ever read, and I wish there was more of its style throughout the novel). In truth, I wish the book had more description to it primarily because I wanted it to continue on and be even more fleshed out, but I can be an adult about this and accept something for what it is and learn to love it for all of its shortcomings, especially when they are so miniscule.
To me, The Great Gatsby is an incredible work. Gatsby, as an idea and not as an actual character, represents so much about the brightness of ambition. Indeed, it serves as its own wick and wax, proving that greatness can rise from a dream borne amongst nothing. However, as is obvious to anyone with semi-adequate critical analysis skills, the material greatness that Gatsby earns and is a symbol of proves to be an elaborate emptiness. Gatsby spends his entire life chasing a superficial fantasy, and though it is primarily powered by love, he finds himself both with everything and nothing at all.
Critics may play the refreshing antagonist and deny it, but Gatsby is the Great American Novel. Now, this is not because it is the best American novel, or even because it is the best representation of the American spirit (I will have to link this to some future review of Gone with the Wind). It is because it so accurately represents a dream, a dream that embodies the greatness within all of us that is struggling to break free and become real. Gatsby is the fatal flaw in the mentality of greatness; it is our goals and imaginations launching us into the demise of rightness. And that is why it is great.
The American Dream is a concept that has been on my mind for a while now, especially as I explore my own dreams and aspirations for the future and try to discern what is realistic. One part of me wants a stable, comfortable life with a solid job and family. Another part, a part fueled by creativity or Western greed or my own view of my potential, wants glamour, extravagance and a brilliant, reckless fastness in life that seems to only be successfully attained by the young, beautiful and wealthy. I know it's unrealistic and I know it's ridiculous in the context of average life, but I can't help but dream about it from the movies and music and TV shows, and of course, from Gatsby. Although, Gatsby slaps me in the face with the vapidity of it all, which I suppose I should be quite thankful for.
Seeing the film has made me quite philosophical on the whole matter, and this post will probably turn out much crappier than I had intended, but life isn't perfect. I suppose it's an inner conflict that I think a lot of us First World spoiled brats deal with, which is that the Gatsby life is so beautiful, and yet so sad. It is simultaneously the grandest thing attainable, and the loneliest, the emptiest. It is remarkably beautiful objects and sounds and people, all of which are somehow hollow. It is material splendour that amounts to nothing and to no one, and there is something wonderfully toxic in that.
Gatsby the film was the single most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I mean it. The imagery is spectacular. Leo is spectacular. Carey Mulligan, who I was sceptical about at first, was undeniably enchanting as Daisy, and Elizabeth Debicki was a show-stopper as Jordan Baker. Tobey Maguire was also perfectly meh, as expected. Everything was wonderful and brought to the silver screen all of the visual elements that I was hoping for, seeing as the novel left me with a sense of emptiness about the whole thing. I couldn't, for the life of me, visualize the grandness of Gatsby's lifestyle under the shadow of depression and desperation that clung to the book during my reading of it. Allowing myself to escape into the sonic and visual wonderland of the Roaring Twenties was definitely the most pleasurable experience of the entire film. I could almost forget about the shell of Gatsby.
I was going to discuss Lana Del Rey in this post, since I could rant for eternity on her and the American Dream ideal and on her role in Gatsby, but perhaps I will save that for another day.
My main point in this hideously long post that no one will likely ever read is that perhaps Gatsby has changed my views forever. Perhaps it has finally brought me out of this haze of the American Dream, which I desire so badly yet know is ultimately harmful and shallow. If love is not enough, money certainly isn't. Mansions and pearls and fine shirts may be lovely, but real beauty exists in truth: in the truth around you and the truth within you. One day, I hope to honestly believe it.
And, if you're not sick of the word "Gatsby" yet, I suggest you reread the novel immediately.
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