THE CONVERSATION 1974

Spoiler Alert. Many crucial plot points are revealed and referenced for the purpose of analysis. If you've never 

seen The Conversation, don't spoil your fun. The mystery is too good. Watch the movie and then come back. I'll still be here.

Although Francis Ford Coppola began writing his script for The Conversation sometime in the late 1960s, and the film went into production well before all the details of the Watergate scandal became known to the public (it was released a mere months before then-President Nixon’s resignation in August of 1974); few ‘70s films capture the wary pessimism of post-Watergate America quite like The Conversation. A small-budget, studio-interference-free, auteur project Paramount granted Coppola in a bid to secure his services for The Godfather Part II, a film he wasn’t interested in making. The Conversation is a detective movie crossed with a character study, reimagined as the quintessential 1970s paranoid thriller.

Gene Hackman as Harry Caul

John Cazale as Stan

Harrison Ford as Martin Stett

Teri Garr as Amy Fredericks

Cindy Williams as Ann

Frederic Forrest as Mark 

Robert Duvall as The Director/Mr. C./Charles

Harry Caul (Hackman) is a career wiretapper. A skilled audio surveillance man who’s (ironically) very well-known in the spy-for-hire field of surreptitious information-gathering. A loner and an outsider, Harry is ideally suited to his craft not only because he’s a man of such unprepossessing countenance that he doesn’t even seem to occupy the space he’s inhabiting, but because he lives his life by the credo - "Don’t get involved." Amongst the many complex electronic gadgets and devices in his professional arsenal, Harry’s own emotional detachment and studied lack of curiosity are his most valued. Indeed, “Nothing personal” could be the byline on his business cards. (That is, were Harry the type to use business cards. For a guy like him, they divulge entirely too much personal information.

Like defense lawyers who revel in the thrust-&-parry byplay of courtroom skirmishes, triumphant in their victories, yet heedless of the harm they do when their academic legal machinations result in the release of drunk drivers and hardened criminals back onto the streets; when it comes to the gathering private information, Harry sees himself simply as a techie problem-solver. He enjoys solving the strategic and electronic puzzles posed by his job, but he never gives a thought as to why his clients want his services, how they intend to use the sensitive material he provides, or whether or not he is in any way culpable for any misfortune that might befall others as a result of his actions. 

"I am in no way responsible" and "It has nothing to do with me" are his professional mantras.

But unless one is a sociopath, indifference to human suffering always comes at a price. And for Harry (a man haunted by the memory of the part his work played in bringing about the brutal torture deaths of an entire family) the price is that he has become a man who strives not to be seen or known by others. Chiefly because he wishes he didn’t have to see or know anything about himself. 

Nowhere Man

Harry’s trademark professional detachment is put to the test when a logistically complex, otherwise routine surveillance job (involving the recording of a conversation between a man and a woman in San Francisco’s crowded Union Square) unearths a probable murder plot. In listening and re-listening to his recording of what on the surface sounds like a wholly innocuous conversation between two clandestine young lovers (Cindy Williams and Frederic Forrest), Harry comes to believe, with mounting certainty, that he is once again in a situation where the plying of his trade will bring about the deaths of innocent people—in this instance, a young couple who both speak as though they live in dire fear of a mysterious individual.

Compelled by equal parts empathy (the woman reminds him of Amy, his neglected girlfriend), the dread of history repeating itself, and the chance for (self)absolution; Harry breaks his cardinal rule of not allowing himself to feel anything about the subjects of his surveillance work. Devoid of any clear plan of action, he resolves to do what he can to prevent the occurrence of what he suspects and deeply dreads. 

As Harry Caul delves deeper into an investigation of the mystery, The Conversation chillingly reveals that there’s more to matters of comprehension, interpretation, and perception than meets the ear.

"He'd kill us if he had the chance."
The virtuoso opening sequence was shot by cinematographer Haskell Wexler (although Bill Butler shot the rest of the film). The contributions of film editor Richard Chew and the brilliant Oscar-nominated sound work of Walter Murch & Art Rochester can't be overstated.

If post-Depression-era films are typified by their reinforcement of the principle that the individual and common man can still wield power and influence over systemic corruption (Mr. Smith Goes To Washington, Meet John Doe); then post-Watergate cinema hammered home the impotence of the average man in the face of widespread moral decay and venality. The Vietnam War and Watergate forced America to lose its illusions about itself. Thus, '60s films like They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, then later, the ‘70s films The Parallax View and Chinatown (both released the same year as The Conversation) all supported the notion that no matter what one does, the decks are stacked, the die is cast, and individual intervention is futile in the face of evil's ascendancy.

In sharing themes having to do with the unreliability of what is superficially seen and heard, Roman Polanski’s Chinatown has a lot in common with The Conversation. Both lead characters (Jack Nicholson’s private eye/Gene Hackman’s wiretap expert) are introduced as individuals inflicted with a kind of moral cynicism born of past events wherein their actions inadvertently brought about the deaths of others. They are also characters whose fortunes only take a turn for the worse after they've abandoned their cynicism, developed a conscience, and seek redemption through the current correction of past errors. 

Allen Garfield as William P. "Call me Bernie" Moran

The Conversation’s Harry Caul is the living embodiment of Vietnam America: a willing, guilt-ridden participant in morally dubious activity who rationalizes the sometimes deadly ramifications of his actions by deluding himself that they have nothing whatsoever to do with him. This spiritual deal-with-the-devil clearly plagues the devoutly religious Harry in his day-to-day life, resulting in his living a paranoid, loner’s existence of arms-distance friendships, inarticulate romances, and a near-constant suspicion of the motives of others.

Elizabeth MacRae as Meredith
(Best known to folks of my generation as Lou-Ann Poovie,
Jim Nabors' southern-fried girlfriend on Gomer Pyle: USMC)

But Harry’s Achilles heel and tragic flaw—despite his best efforts—is that he really hasn't become as callous and indifferent to the world as he'd like to be. He's a man who struggles with his humanity (he regularly goes to confession) in a world that continually reconfirms that feelings...all feelings...are a liability and source of pain. Yet something within him still fights against complete callousness. Thus making Harry's uncharacteristic decision to involve himself in the saving of the lives of the two lovers a simultaneous, last-gasp attempt to save his own life as well. 

What plagues Harry most about this otherwise humane decision to act...what stands as both the source and substance of his dread...is the fear that, should this assignment turn out like the other, with innocent lives lost, the result could lead to the irretrievable loss of what's left of his soul. 

"This is no ordinary conversation. It makes me feel...something...."

A prevailing characteristic of the '70s paranoid thriller is how they provide no reassurance that conspiracies aren’t real. Nor do they contradict the notion of paranoia as a rational, reasonable response to a reality of diminished privacy and corrupt authority figures.
Conceivably, as a means of conveying to the viewer that Harry Caul is a better man than his choice of profession would belie (he's more a gadget-geek than a spy), The Conversation establishes from the get-go that Harry is singularly ineffectual when it comes to keeping his life private. He's not nearly the opaque, stealthy, character he imagines himself to be. In fact, it seems as though the conclusion of the film suggests that Harry has not been paranoid ENOUGH.

For example: In spite of multiple locks on his door, an alarm system, and a refusal to divulge personal information to anyone, Harry's landlady not only finds out about his birthday and his age, but manages to leave a gift for him inside his apartment when he is away. This scene, coming as it does after the opening sequence which details how anyone can be observed anywhere, is notable for the open blinds in Harry's apartment, revealing a moving construction crane ostensibly working outside of his window (an element made more obvious in the original script). A point that later plays into answering a third act disclosure revealing how Harry’s mysterious employer has always maintained an awareness of Harry's comings and goings.

Harry grows uneasy when his girlfriend Amy lets on that she knows
 he spies on her and listens to her phone calls

A recurring motif contributing to the bleakness of The Conversation's worldview is that Harry, for all the effort expended in insulating himself, is really the most exposed and vulnerable person in the film. Unable to connect with anyone (not even the couple he's trying to save), he is easily followed, bugged, tricked, spied upon; and, in those moments when he does try to open up, too easily betrayed. In the end, it's clear Harry is both a victim and an (unwitting?) victimizer at constant risk of dying by the very sword he lives by.

Barriers

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM 

The Conversation is an intriguing thriller that builds its suspense honestly and ingeniously. A thriller made all the more compelling by the way it combines the familiar tropes of the suspense thriller with the intimate intensity of the character-study film. And while (unlike many suspense thrillers) the humans take precedence over plot in The Conversation, what a doozy of a plot it is! (In 1975, Gene Hackman would play another self-confronting private investigator in Arthur Penn's Night Moves, a nihilist '70s spin on the 1940s film noir.)
The Conversation is at its most successful when drawing the viewer into questioning the significance of superficially banal dialogue and mundane-appearing activities. The Conversation mines the suspense in its ordinary characters and the gritty squalor of their lives in a way reminiscent of what Alan J. Pakula achieved in Klute (1971). And for evoking paranoia and isolation, the purposeful use of San Francisco locations in The Conversation recalls Philip Kaufman’s brilliant 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

There's a big retro kick to be had in the proliferation of pay phones and primitive sound equipment on display. 

PERFORMANCES

The Conversation was not a success when released in April of 1974, and with that year's December release of Coppola’s The Godfather, Part II, it was all but forgotten by audiences and critics alike. It did garner three Academy Award nominations (Best Picture, Original Screenplay, & Sound), but in a tough acting year crowded by the likes of Jack Nicholson (Chinatown), Dustin Hoffman (Lenny), Al Pacino (The Godfather, Part II), and Albert Finney (Murder on the Orient Express), Gene Hackman's commanding and sensitive performance was crowded out. (I love Art Carney, but his Harry & Tonto nomination and win to me is positively baffling considering the heavyweight competition).

All the supporting performances in The Conversation are outstanding, but
Elizabeth MacRae as the sad-eyed trade-show model is surprisingly good and deeply affecting

In Harry Caul, Gene Hackman (2nd choice after Marlon Brando turned down the role) gives what I consider to be the best performance of his varied and very impressive career. Portraying a closed-off character is always a challenge; playing one who must convey to the audience the gradual reawakening of conscience is something else again. The entirety of whatever dramatic effectiveness or potential for audience involvement The Conversation has rested on the credibility of Hackman’s transformation. (And, tellingly, the film doesn’t require that you actually like Harry). On that score, Hackman—with the inestimable contribution of the film's uniformly exceptional cast—is nothing short of extraordinary.

The likely apocryphal story goes that Hackman gained weight and partially
 shaved his head for the role. The latter proving so problematic in growing back that it contributed to his refusal to shave his head for the role of Lex Luthor in Superman: The Movie (1978)

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

If you’re familiar with The Conversation at all, you’ve likely read or heard about the perhaps equally apocryphal story about a fortuitous transcription error that resulted in the original last name of Gene Hackman’s character being changed from Call (perhaps a little too on-the-nose for a serious film about a wiretapper) to the homophonous and oh-so evocative Caul. Caul is the name for the transparent protective membrane surrounding a fetus. Not one to spit in the eye of serendipity, Coppola builds upon this happy spelling error and uses it as both an allusive reference to Harry’s overly self-protective personality, and a springboard for a series of recurring visual motifs dramatizing the human instinct to emotionally insulate. 

Rain or shine,  the emotionally embryonic Harry is rarely seen without 
his "protective" transparent plastic raincoat

The motif of protective yet transparent membranes simultaneously protecting and isolating individuals is further conveyed in The Conversation's use of obfuscating veils of semi-transparent surfaces. The whole blurred vision effect is suggestive of Harry not really having a clear perspective of what he's getting himself involved in. 

Not Getting a Clear Picture of Things

Hackman is filmed through a plastic sheet in this scene depicting Harry having a cagey conversation with an untrustworthy colleague (Garfield).

The crucial details of a harrowing event are obscured behind a gauze curtain

A glass partition  prevents intervention while revealing only enough to horrify

A figure lies shrouded in a membrane of clear plastic

Coppola and cinematographer Bill Butler (Demon Seed) frequently rely on wide-angle shots to cut the frame into sections, dramatically emphasizing The Conversation's themes of isolation, loneliness, and the inability to communicate or emotionally connect.

The wide-angle perspective and strong vertical lines created by the support beams in Harry's vast warehouse workspace create a sense of  emotional desolation while simultaneously conveying a feeling of being hemmed in 

In this office set, vertical lines once again create isolated frames distancing the characters from one another. Meanwhile, the membrane motif is recalled by the clear plastic window shades, the central image dominated by an instrument of privacy invaded (the telescope)

Separate, Yet Connected
In one of my favorite images from the film, Harry stands on the balcony of the Jack Tar Hotel
in San Francisco, its design and layout create a wall of isolated, sealed-off cubicles

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

Beyond its obvious Watergate-era appeal and glimpse into a cultural zeitgeist I still remember vividly, I have to say that what most makes The Conversation a film I can rewatch endlessly (per my tendency to gravitate to films from which I can glean insights into the human condition) is that it is a powerful and persuasive allegory about the risks of allowing oneself to be vulnerable.

Watched

Characters in The Conversation are fond of repeating phrases like “You’re not supposed to feel anything” and “Nothing personal”; but as (I hope) we all know, life is very personal, and any attempt to connect authentically with another human being is fraught with risk. It hurts; it’s messy; it invades your space and disrupts order; it leaves you exposed to betrayal, misunderstanding, and rejection. And worst of all, it comes with no guarantees. On the contrary, it comes with the unequivocal assurance that the closer you get to someone…the better they know you…the more open and exposed you allow yourself to be...the greater the potential for them to do you harm.

Watching

But what of the alternative? Is it possible to exist among others with life’s only objective being the hope that your path never intersects with another? That “nothing personal” transpires to invade your heart and cause you pain? As Harry Caul learns, not only does one embark on a course of self-isolation at the risk of losing one's soul and humanity, but the biggest irony of all is how life has a way of happening to you no matter how diligently you try to keep it at bay. As the saying goes, no one here gets out alive.

Watcher

The Conversation is a peerless ‘70s paranoia thriller, one certainly not lacking in present-day parallels. But the film's paranoia/conspiracy theme is but one of the many layers making up this intelligent, superbly-crafted film. Like the audio tapes that plague Harry throughout the movie, The Conversation imparts more information and more insights the more you watch it.

BONUS MATERIAL

The stationery letterhead for Coppola's American Zoetrope San Francisco offices when they were housed in the Columbus Tower on Kearny Street. Someone familiar with Coppola's history can confirm, but I remember reading somewhere that the raised, circular letterhead graphic (depicting a dog with a camera in the center of a plate) is from a child's dish set from Coppola's youth or that of his father.

Elizabeth MacRae in a 1967 episode from the 3rd season of the TV series
 Gomer Pyle: USMC highlighting the character of aspiring vocalist Lou-Ann Poovie

Professional mime Robert Shields,  a real-life annoyance, er...I mean, entertainer in San Francisco's Union Square when I was a kid, appears as himself in the film's opening sequence. Unusual for a mime, Shields went on to considerable show business success in later years, appearing on TV variety shows and, in 1977 teaming with wife and fellow mime Lorene Yarnell in their own 60-minute weekly variety series "Shields & Yarnell" on CBS. 

The Conversation on DVD & Blu-Ray

I haven't heard the commentary Francis Ford Coppola supplies for the most recent DVD release of The Conversation, but from what I've read, it offers a wealth of info about the making of the film (e.g., Harrison Ford got a bead on his character when Coppola informed him that Martin Stett was gay). Of particular interest for me are the things that were cut from the final film: 1) Harry is revealed to be the secret owner of the apartment building he occupies, 2) He is plagued by overly-friendly neighbors, 3) There was a subplot involving a niece [Mackenzie Phillips], and 4) The betrayal Harry suffers at the hands of a character turns out to not be as conspiratorially sinister as it appears to be in the finished film.

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2017

THE GREAT GATSBY 1974

You pretty much know what you’re in for in this, the third screen adaptation of  F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic 1925 novel The Great Gatsby when the film begins with a series of loving, beautifully lit, perfectly framed, Architectural Digest-worthy shots of property and objects. Instead of a haunting rumination on romantic obsession as a means of recapturing the past, poetically framed by a bitter indictment of materialism, the American Dream, and the emotional recklessness of the rich; this is The Great Gatsby as told from the perspective of nostalgia fetish.

The Great Gatsby suffers a bit from a confused point of view. When the camera lens is trained on Gatsby's beautiful objects, I suspect we're supposed to respond to the hollow allure of materialism. Unfortunately, the images are so arrestingly beautiful that they invite audiences to ooh and ahh over their luster. In essence, to view the items from the acquisitive, money-enamored perspective of Daisy. A bit of a problem, given that she is one of the more superficial and morally corrupt characters in the film.

In this Jack Clayton directed (The Innocents, Room at the Top) adaptation of an overly-reverential screenplay by Francis Ford Coppola, the unrequited love affair between Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan takes a back seat to the love affair the camera has with all the 1920s Art Deco knickknacks, gimcracks, and gewgaws on display throughout. This The Great Gatsby is a fashionista’s orgy of breathtaking period costuming, a production designer’s wet dream of glittering Jazz Age opulence, and an antiquities museum curator’s idea of a motion picture. Lovely to look at, yet emotionally arid, antiseptic, and hermetically sealed.

Robert Redford as Jay Gatsby

Mia Farrow as Daisy Buchanan

Bruce Dern as Tom Buchanan

Sam Waterston as Nick Carraway

Karen Black as Myrtle Wilson

Lois Chiles as Jordan Baker

Miscast, misguided, and overproduced (the latter an odd thing to say about a movie that revels in the excesses of the wealthy). That this film ranks at all amongst my picks of memorable movies to write about for this blog is largely due to The Great Gatsby being one of my top, all-time favorite novels, and this version being a particularly faithful big-screen adaptation. Painstakingly so, in fact. Indeed, the paradox of this nearly $7 million mounting of The Great Gatsby is how it is able to faithfully replicate so many intricate details of the novel (including sizable chunks of dialog and virtually the entirety of the book's events and characters) while still managing somehow to leave out both the book's passion and its pathos. It’s like one of those lifelike celebrity waxworks at Madame Tussauds: identical in every superficial detail, but falling short of being a true representation of life because it lacks a soul.

How this came to be can perhaps be traced to the film’s troubled genesis, recounted in fascinating detail in Bruce Bahrenburg’s book, Filming The Great Gatsby (my own yellowed and tattered copy, purchased in the heat of 1974’s studio-generated “Gatsby Fever”). Originally conceived and developed as a wedding present vehicle for Ali MacGraw by then-husband Robert Evans, The Great Gatsby was derailed when MacGraw threw a gold-plated, 14-carat monkey wrench into the works by falling in love with her The Getaway co-star, Steve McQueen. While the hunt went out for a new Daisy (in which several credible applicants like Faye Dunaway and Candice Bergen were passed over for, in my opinion, the absolutely incredible choice of Mia Farrow), an ailing Truman Capote was fired as screenwriter and later sued the studio. Meanwhile, the beautiful but inexpressive Lois Chiles was entrusted with the showy role of Jordan Baker simply because she was the girlfriend of the cuckolded Robert Evans, and studio head Charles Bluhdorn figured the poor guy needed to catch a break.

Daisy & Gatsby
Mia Farrow (absolute perfection in Rosemary's Baby) is an actress I greatly admire, but for me, she was totally out of her depth as Daisy Buchanan. Lacking the ability of say, Julie Christie, who can somehow play shallow and self-absorbed as interesting and sympathetic, Farrow's Daisy is mostly annoyingly fey and shrill. To be fair, F.Scott Fitzgerald's daughter, Frances, told People magazine at the time, "Mia Farrow looks like the Daisy my father had in mind." However, this was said during the filming. I've no idea what she thought after seeing the finished product.

Most movies have tortuous paths to completion, but The Great Gatsby is one of those films that gives the appearance of an inordinate amount of time and energy being spent on engineering a marketable property, not making a film. We still have the basic story of the millionaire with the shady past who attempts to reignite an old love affair with the socialite who threw him over years ago when he was poor, but that's almost all we have. Very little of what can be deemed effective is done with the novel's themes involving class, idealized romance, and morality.
One rarely gets the sense that anyone involved in the making of The Great Gatsby had even read the novel, much less understood any of what Fitzgerald was trying to say about the corrupting allure of the shiny side of the American Dream. Had more than a few seconds of thought been afforded these concerns, surely someone would have noted the contradiction inherent in making an ostentatious, large-scale behemoth about the pernicious vulgarity of the rich. I have a hunch that Paramount, in having made a fortune with Erich Segal’s Love Story, merely saw Fitzgerald's book as a "great romance." I'm sure it was their hope to combine the crowd-pleasing romanticism of Love Story (1970) with the moneymaking, sentimentalized nostalgia of The Way We Were (1973), and never gave a thought to much else.

Hype Gripe
The amount of publicity surrounding the release of The Great Gatsby was near-suffocating and ultimately off-putting to the public. In 1974 Warner Bros had Mame waiting in the wings, while  Paramount had Gatsby as well as Chinatown. The entire country was swept up in a nostalgia craze that even the decade's eventual disco fever couldn't quell.

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

For all my complaining about what a prefab piece of Hollywood machinery The Great Gatsby turned out to be, I nevertheless get quite a kick out of the film. This in spite of my not finding the film to be particularly good, yet feeling a certain attachment to it due to a few sentimental, Gatsby-esque reasons of my own. The pleasure I derive from watching The Great Gatsby these days is chiefly nostalgic in nature, and directly related to the memories I have of my sixteen-year-old self in 1974. Back then I was caught up in all things movie-related and willfully swept up in the Gatsby hype. I bought all the magazines containing Gatsby articles, purchased the soundtrack album, and dragged my family to see it several times. I did everything short of begging my mother to purchase and serve our meals on the limited-edition The Great Gatsby Corelle® dinnerware they sold at the local department store.

At that time, I hadn't yet read Fitzgerald’s novel, so I didn't have any expectations waiting to be dashed. Nevertheless, in spite of my enthusiasm (or perhaps, because of it) when the film finally opened, I was a bit underwhelmed. It was nothing like the moving romance I was expecting, but it was a great deal like a film adaptation of a campy, self-serious Harold Robbins novel. Then, as now, I find it a gorgeous film to look at, and with each passing year, I grow ever fonder of the old-fashioned movie magic of large crowds of extras, big sets, period detail, all accomplished with no CGI. But it's still a film whose every scene is haunted by the twin ghosts of what-could-have-been and unrealized potential.

A Fine Romance
If Gatsby and Daisy failed to sizzle for some audiences, their lack of heat is nothing compared to the non-romance of butch professional golfer Jordan Baker and Tony Perkins-esque narrator Nick Carraway. According to IMDB trivia, original screenwriter Truman Capote wrote Nick as a homosexual and Jordan as a lesbian. Sounds about right to me. 

My DVD of the film is a treasured guilty pleasure, but I can't help wishing it were otherwise. A consolation of sorts is that the joys I currently find in this surprisingly joyless movie (Gatsby’s parties look well-populated and busy, but not the least bit fun) are of the so-bad-it’s-good variety. I honestly could watch this film every day, yet I wouldn't recommend it to a soul. It's a very watchable, amiable kind of failure. One which yields new campy treasures and glaring misjudgments with each viewing.

A couple of examples:

Daisy’s hair. In her memoirs, Mia Farrow felt her performance was “undermined” by the unflattering wig she was forced to wear, claiming that for the duration, “(It) felt and looked like cotton candy.” Can’t disagree with her there.

The clothes fetish. I know everyone in this movie is supposed to be rich and can afford fancy garb, but this is one of those movies where all the clothes have that distracting “never been worn” look. This also applies to the never-lived-in sets and all those pristine automobiles on display. These cars are so drooled over by the camera that when Myrtle meets her end at the fender of Gatsby’s gorgeous yellow Rolls Royce, I'm tempted to think audiences were left in a moral quandary...were they upset by her grisly death, or because she left such a big, ugly dent in that perfectly lovely automobile?

Author Tom Wolfe: "I'll never forgive the 1974 version of 'The Great Gatsby,' which was the Fitzgerald novel as reinterpreted by the garment industry. Throughout the picture, Robert Redford wore white suits. They fitted so badly that every time he turned a corner there was an eighty-microsecond lag before they joined him."

PERFORMANCES

According to Roman Polanski, his dream casting of the role of Guy Woodhouse in Rosemary’s Baby would have been Robert Redford. Upon seeing the lack of chemistry displayed between Mia Farrow and Robert Redford in The Great Gatsby, I'm inclined to think he dodged a bullet there. Certainly the Clark Gable of the ’70s, Robert Redford is a strikingly handsome man (I could write a sonnet about the way the sun hits the blond fur on his upper thighs in his swimsuit scene); but he is woefully stiff and colorless as Gatsby. It’s unimaginable that anyone this bland could harbor an obsessed fixation on anything other than perhaps Miracle Whip.

Most of the acting in The Great Gatsby falls into one of two categories: stiff or fussy. As garage owner George Wilson, actor Scott Wilson (so good in In Cold Blood) somehow manages to combine both as he's allowed to go through the entire film with the exact same watery-eyed, self-pitying expression you see here. The exasperation expressed by wife Myrtle (Karen Black) is pretty much on par with my own.

By way of contrast, we have my personal 70s fave, Karen Black, giving what can most charitably be described as a ridiculous performance as 20s hotbox, Myrtle Wilson. Karen Black won a Golden Globe for it, so perhaps it’s just a matter of taste, but I don’t believe her Myrtle for a minute…which is not the same thing as saying that I don’t love her performance. Acting her ass off in an almost alarmingly mannered fashion, Black is terrible in that Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara way. And as such, she’s close to being the only life the film has. I'm not sure whose idea it was to make Myrtle so hapless (over the course of the film, Black falls down a flight of stairs, shoves her hand through a plate window, and suffers a rap across the mouth), but hers is a physical, black comedy performance (pun intended) very faithful to the idiosyncratic skills of the actress. Tone and tempo of the rest of the film be damned.

Actress Brooke Adams, (l.) who would star in 1978's Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and actor Edward Herrmann (r.) who played FDR in the 1982 musical, Annie show up in bit parts as party guests in The Great Gatsby.

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

There’s not a lot that Mia Farrow does right in The Great Gatsby, but there is one scene where she so completely nails it that it almost makes her being so poorly cast worthwhile. It’s the scene that takes place in the Buchanan household when everyone is sitting around the dinner table complaining about the heat (taking place over the course of one summer, everybody sweats a lot in this movie…from the neck up, anyway. No one’s clothes are ever damp). In this scene, Daisy forgets herself and speaks to Gatsby as though the others aren't there. “Ah, you look so cool. You always look so cool,” she says dreamily. Catching herself, she blushes and starts to rattle off a nonsense explanation that hilariously trails off to nowhere. Farrow seriously knocks that little bit of business out of the park. It’s the single most authentically character-based acting she does in the film, and she’s great. In that one minute, I can see what kind of woman Daisy was perhaps supposed to be all along.

Very Pretty People Capable of Very Ugly Things

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

Trusting a sensitive book like The Great Gatsby to an industry comprised of individuals who wouldn't recognize a moral imperative if it tapped them on the shoulder and asked if it could park their Hummers for them, is a little like asking Donald Trump to act like a human being for five minutes: the desire may be there, but the tools to pull it off aren't.

This version of The Great Gatsby is almost valueless as drama, but it's the perfect kind of screen adaptation of a literary classic for showing in high school English Classes. For while it is a faithful visual representation of the body of the text, at no time does the film tip its hand toward revealing what the novel’s underlying themes are, leaving students free to discuss amongst themselves.

Toned, tanned, & terrific, beefcake Redford provides a glimpse of what is 
so great about this particular Gatsby.

Because in my heart I consider The Great Gatsby to be a book of ideas and moral concepts poetically dramatized, I have my doubts as to whether it’s the kind of book that will ever lend itself to a satisfying screen adaptation. I must say I’m intrigued by the little I've seen of Baz Luhrmann’s forthcoming adaptation (although I'm not sure if I'm up for another one of Tobey Maguire's stare-a-thon roles). Its considerable visual dazzle once again raises the issue of whether or not it is possible for a film to simultaneously condemn and chronicle extreme wealth. If not, I guess we'll be left with another example of the past repeating itself...in 3-D, no less.

Gatsby reaches out toward the light at the end of Daisy's dock.

Nick: “You can’t repeat the past.”

Gatsby: “You can’t repeat the past? Of course you can.”

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2013