Full, unhappy disclosure (with spoilers ahead): I am one of those annoying F. Scott Fitzgerald purists who prefers their Gatsby writ large and wildly unbound within the immortal words and pages of the writer. That will always taint how I view any adaptation, and I acknowledge it now as a factual part of my enjoyment of the musical version currently playing at the Broadway Theatre. That said, I’ve always welcomed any and all versions of the work, ready and perhaps too willing to embrace whatever interpretation any number of creators have attempted to employ over the years, including an original Broadway musical, whose over-the-top format might have been the jolt of drama that the novel has demanded, and all-too-often damned.
Starring Jeremy Jordan as Jay Gatsby and Eva Noblezada as Daisy Buchanan (understudy Kayla Pecchioni admirably performed in that tricky role on the evening I saw it), ‘The Great Gatsby’ arrives with much-ballyhooed hype and one of the most outwardly-lush productions of excess, which is one of its strong points. Mirroring the sparkling decadence of the novel, the atmosphere and backdrop is a striking combination of stage wizardry, employing a spectacular hybrid of set pieces and projections that work in seamless tandem to capture the epic scope and expanse of the novel. Capturing this superficial world is like capturing the green light – it looms forever elusive.
This production seems to take more of its inspiration from the Bad Luhrmann movie version than the actual novel itself – something the modern-audience might be clamoring for, and my old, stodgy, stickler ways simply may not appreciate. As such it is at least two interpretations away from the source material, and it feels like that sacrifices some of the novel’s magic.
As Gatsby, Jeremy Jordan brings down the rafters with his soaring voice, and certainly has the wit and beguile to justify assuming the mythical role, yet through either the direction or his full-on embrace of Gatsby’s more charming qualities, Jordan seems to project a knowing wink to the audience, who largely eat it up (judging by their rapturous reaction to his mere presence on stage). The problem is that Gatsby would never give a knowing wink to the world – only perhaps to Daisy, or possibly Nick – an important distinction that tends to plague any and every theatrical adaptation of the book due to its seeming impossibility of expression – it’s too small and quiet for something as demanding as a Broadway theater. And despite the fact that Jordan is given a couple of grandiose solos that are performed alone on stage, one never gets the feeling that this character is in any way lonely – another hallmark that Fitzgerald masterfully merely hinted at, and which ran deep into the dark heart of the novel.
By the time this Gatsby, decked out in his military uniform, steps into a choreographed production number that thrills the audience with Jordan tap-dancing his way into musical theater heaven, the mystery of the character has largely fallen by the wayside, while the magic of the performers and the tradition of Broadway pizazz steps up to center stage. If you’re willing to give in to that, and let go of the wish for something as beautifully dark and gorgeously hopeless as the book so thrillingly conveys, this Gatsby may be enough for you. The singular talent of powerhouse Jordan (who has been deserving of a worthy star vehicle since ‘Newsies’ and the pre-Broadway run of ‘Finding Neverland’) and a supremely adroit cast firing on all cylinders (stand-outs including Samantha Pauly as Jordan Baker and Eric Anderson as a bespectacled Wolfsheim) might be the modern-day Gatsby the world deserves.
Visually, the evening is a sumptuous feast; musically, it provides a typical Broadway score, taking the necessary cues from its 1920’s inspiration, then adding in the requisite bombastic ballads and second act reprises. Taken as a whole, it’s almost enough to approximate the magic of Fitzgerald’s prose, but ‘almost’ and ‘approximate’ will never quite fully capture Gatsby’s glory. If you clamor for the ache and the dimmer underside that only the wondrous cadence of Fitzgerald’s marvelously ambiguous evocations could elicit, then you may find fault with the empty liberties being taken on stage, no matter how much they may dazzle.
