But that's Gatsby the novel. Translated into a play on a narrow stage in a small theater, it’s easy to lose sight of the Dream and the Twenties until nothing’s left but a domestic melodrama about one wealthy man’s efforts to regain a lost love. And that explains, I think, the limited effect of Simon Levy’s Gatsby adaptation, currently playing at Stageworks. There’s some superb acting in this production, especially from Nathan Jokela, Dahlia Legault, and Katrina Stevenson, and the dialogue is often taken verbatim from Fitzgerald’s original. But director Noelle Monroe hasn’t found a method — via sets or projections or who knows what expedients — to suggest the Outer Spheres of Fitzgerald’s invention, so we’re left with a mildly interesting, not terribly important, small-scale love story. It’s Gatsby, all right, but only in the most literal sense. It’s entertaining to a degree, but it doesn’t offer a clue as to why the novel is essential equipment for Americans.
Curiously, two of the best performances in this version add something to Fitzgerald’s characters that the author himself didn’t provide. In the novel, Nick Carraway is a rather passive enabler, standing by or helping out while all sorts of infidelities and injuries proceed all around him. But Jokela’s Carraway is a complex, intellectual observer who’s pained by human error and somehow the spokesperson for moral probity. Jordan Baker in the novel is rather boyish and cold, but as performed by Legault, she’s a smoky, aggressive femme fatale whose carnality is usually turned up to High. Stevenson, on the other hand, is a Myrtle Wilson from right between the covers: she’s vulgar and vain and uncontrollable by her husband and her lover both. Lauren Bugliosi as Gatsby’s idolized Daisy turns in a sturdy performance, but it’s never really clear what Gatsby, or for that matter her husband, sees in her (Carey Mulligan was so lovably quirky in Baz Luhrmann’s 2013 film, she made much more sense); and Jamie Jones is just fine as macho Tom Buchanan, a guy who’s as likely to punch you out as offer you a drink. Pete Clapsis is little more than a caricature as Jewish con artist Meyer Wolfsheim, but Matthew Frankel as cuckolded George Wilson efficiently puts across the idea that it’s really quite sad (and not a small burden) to be stupid.
And then there’s R. James Faurote as Jay Gatsby. Fitzgerald famously left Gatsby’s looks mostly to the reader's imagination, so there’s lots of room for disagreement here — but Faurote impresses from his first appearance. Handsome, perfectly coiffed, somewhat impassive, he comes across as self-made in the special sense of willingly artificial. Other people have faces; Faurote’s Gatsby has only a mask. Other people sweat; Faurote’s Gatsby left that inconvenience behind years ago. It’s true there’s not much palpable chemistry between this Gatsby and Bugliosi’s Daisy, but maybe that’s expecting too much of a mask.
One further strength of the production is Marilyn Gaspardo Bertch's period costuming. T. J. “Tandy” Ecenia’s set, comprised of two abstract constructions, one high, one low, adds exactly nothing to the narrative and at times detracts from the story’s tensions. Director Monroe never finds a way to suggest the vastness of Gatsby’s mansion or the massive size of his parties — perhaps video might have helped in this — and Levy’s script, while largely attentive to the novel, leaves out the famous eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg and the ominous Valley of Ashes. But if your idea of a good adaptation is one that quotes often from the original, you’ll like this version of Gatsby.
It’s faithful to the letter.
It's just missing two-thirds of the spirit.
The Great Gatsby
Three of five stars.
Stageworks Theatre, 1120 E. Kennedy Blvd., Tampa.
Through Dec. 18: Fri. & Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 3 p.m.
$30.
813-374-2416. stageworkstheatre.org.
This article appears in Dec 1-8, 2016.