There is a strong argument for turning F Scott Fitzgerald’s jazz-age critique of the American Dream into a musical, from the sound of the lavish parties at Jay Gatsby’s mansion to the natural lyricism in its prose.
It does not transpose convincingly here, though not for the lack of size or volume. Under the direction of Marc Bruni, it starts big, in sound and look, as the world of spoiled old-money couple, Tom (Jon Robyns) and Daisy Buchanan (Frances Mayli McCann), collides with that of the self-made Jay Gatsby (Jamie Muscato).
But it has nowhere to go from there: with every ostrich-filled scene and iceberg-sized setting, designed by Paul Tate DePoo III, it appears more like a Las Vegas casino with bursts of lurid light and ever more showboating sets.
The music by Jason Howland, and lyrics by Nathan Tysen, comprise cruise-liner material too, by turns trite, tinkly and bombastic, from the opening number, Roaring On, onwards. It is unfortunate, given the strong vocal capabilities of the cast.
The unfettered parties at Gatsby’s swanky mansion are antiseptic despite the eye-catching array of costumes designed by Linda Cho (a dazzle of beaded frocks, flapper headdresses and glittery Mary Janes). Dominque Kelley’s choreography gives period moves (Charlestons galore) Beyoncé-style inflections but it looks sterile for the lack of emotional drama around it, while the book, by Kait Kerrigan, merely tells you what is going on, and who is who.
Fitzgerald’s central couple fizz with charisma on the page, lighting up every room with their smiles, but here they are smoothed to two dimensions, as slick and empty-eyed as those of Doctor TJ Eckleberg’s in the advert that looms behind them. They all seem breezy and rather amicable, including the supercilious Tom, while Gatsby is something of a cypher. That is no fault of the cast – the mood is simply too perky, the pace brisk and breezy, the story’s heart subsumed by the mission to put on a high-octane musical.
There is no depth of emotion to the love story between Jay and Daisy, no sultriness to Tom’s affair with the wife of petrol pump attendant, Myrtle (Rachel Tucker), and no icy heat to the romance between Jordan (Amber Davies) and Nick Carraway (Corbin Bleu). Here, she excitedly asks for his hand in marriage – but why? Gatsby’s dodgy business is flat-footedly conveyed in the song, Shady, while his associate, Meyer Wolfsheim (John Owen-Jones) is about as sinister as a Bugsy Malone extra.
Then there is the problem of Nick. The show’s narrator is far removed fromthe voice of Fitzgerald’s lone observer. He resembles a relatable, hapless type from a modern relationship TV drama – quite literally the guy next door. He squirms when things turn bad and talks of journalling about his post-traumatic stress disorder from the Great War. The babbling tone of his narration turns Fitzgerald’s prose – full of poetic restraint – into rambles.
And despite the glut of vocal and visual crescendos, the peaks of the story flatline, from the violence by Tom that breaks Myrtle’s nose to the shooting at the ending. Fresh from Broadway, this production encapsulates the worst of peacockingly splashy entertainment – the kind whose soul has been suctioned out in the making.
At theColiseum, London, until 7 September