I’ve just finished watching The Great Gastby as part of a mini-celebration of today being the last day of college.
It’s a shame to have been unable to read the book all the way through.
When movies take on the hard task of retelling a story on the screen, much substance is lost in the movie-making process. I can barely recall any right off the top of my head, that did a satisfactory job. Us chaps in the audience can be divided into two- Read The Book First and Saw the Movie First.
Most often, I have found myself in the former bracket, of those who have read the complete story, the bits that the silver screen cannot tell you about, not so much as whisper. On trips to the cinema, I would invariably be accompanied by someone who hadn’t read the inspiration behind the movie and a quasi elitist concern washed over me: how does it feel to not have known a story in its entirety? In its full magnificence?
Now that I have skipped over that line between Read The Book First and Saw The Movie First, I must say it is really not that pitiable. I guess being unaware of how much more… complete the story, the characters, their dilemmas and the foibles could be cushions the blow a movie is capable of dealing to you otherwise.
The Luhrmann’s version has whetted my appetite for the finer web of possibilities that grazed past, only to have few surge to the surface of the man’s life.
(the soundtracks sure seem out of place with the time the story the makers claim to be narrating it in)
As I steeled myself to watch how the movie ended: Daisy leaving with her family, unaware of Jay’s funeral, I realized how many things that depart unexplained in our eyes are the result of that which occurred- and that which did not.
Of course, I will know much better once I’m through reading the original work.
I haven’t really written in a long time, but maybe the night will spent poring over Gatsby’s story in ink. Who knows what fires the engines of the mind?