Full disclosure: I am not a fan of Fitzgerald's novel. At least part of the reason for seeing this production was to see if I would finally get an idea of why people find this trite Jazz Age tale of brutality and stupidity among the Terribly Rich to be so fascinating and so meaningful.
The production, by setting it in what has to be the most dreary office space imaginable, does everything possible to strip the novel of all glamour, the very glamour and costume drama stuff that can make other adaptations of the novel so problematic. All those pretty buildings, costumes and big big parties can become an end in themselves, as they certainly do in the unfortunate 1974 film with Redford and Farrow. Instead, we get one guy reading the text while apparently waiting for his computer to start working, and as time passes (or doesn't, the clock on his desk stays resolutely at 9:35), he begins to populate the story with the people around him, and with their assistance the entire novel, all 170-odd pages, is brought to life.
Scott Shepherd's performance as Nick, or more properly, Man In Office is arresting, as he gradually becomes enmeshed in the book. For me the real triumph is the performance of the actor playing Gatsby, whose name I just can't remember, who rises above all of the pitfalls of playing a legendary figure by simply playing the man as written, something that I'm not sure would be possible in any other dramatized version of this story. The problem performances come, I'm afraid, from the all-too obviously non-professional actor playing Gatsby's father and the actor playing Henry Wilson.
I can't say that the production did much to change my feelings about the novel. For all the deglamming going on, the novel's romantic blatherings are presented with full solemnity, as GREAT TRUTHS being presented to you the Lucky Audience, and I'm sorry, I just don't buy it. I've always felt that Mr. Fitzgerald, through his mouthpiece Nick Carraway, expects me to be taking away some Grand Statement about the American Dream from this slender little story about utter assholishness of the Rich, and it has always escaped me. The romantic blatherings about green lights on docks and boats being borne ceaselessly into the past always come off to me like too-sugary frosting on a particularly bitter cake.
I'm sure I'm even more in the minority on this one than usual.
"If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about the answers." Thomas Pynchon, GRAVITY'S RAINBOW
"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away." Philip K. Dick
My blog: http://www.roscoewrites.blogspot.com/
