A literary adaptation that continually begs detrimental comparison with the novel, this relies too much on appearance, making little attempt to explore behind the beguiling '20s façade. Given little support, the characters are left scratching the surface, their feverishness expressed in an unfortunately literal manner, as though they're running high temperatures most of the time. Redford occasionally conveys Gatsby's private obsession and his unease, but too often he's merely decorative, certainly no enigmatic figure of gossip. Farrow's Daisy is disastrously lightweight, a cross between squeaky child and flapper hard to imagine as the object of anyone's infatuation. It's sadly logical that their love is celebrated as the ultimate Babycham experience. Although no catastrophe, uneven pacing and length make The Great Gatsby over-schematic and overt, at its best when dealing with the lesser characters, and safely middle-of-the-road.