Uhm, no. No, no, no, no, no. Blasphemy!
The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite novels, and the 1974 Robert Redford original one of my favorite films... one of the most perfect translations from book to film I've ever seen. It caught that peculiar tone of restrained hysteria of the Fitzgerald novel, Redford perfectly portrayed the mysterious blankness of Gatsby, Farrow perfectly portrayed the veneer of vapid sweetness over an empty soul as Daisy. I thought Tom Buchanan could have been cast better (Bruce Dern was far too weak-looking), and they used the wrong Newport house for Gatsby's mansion (but perhaps Ochre Court wasn't available and Rosecliff and Marble House were), but those are the merest quibbles.
This movie is going to have to be viewed as one of those "loosely inspired by" types of deals. One rather expects that of Baz, but he's pissing on one of my legends here and I am finding it difficult to not be angry about it. It has been infused with dazzling passion on its every surface instead of the misty brittleness of the novel; it's glitzy and glamorous and hot... a Baz Luhrmann movie. I might be able to enjoy the film (it certainly looks interesting) if I can completely divorce it from the source material in my mind. I mean, Leo DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan and Tobey Maguire are certainly nice to look at; but they simply are not Jay and Daisy and Nick. They just aren't.