The sad thing about a blockbuster film being made of a book you're fond of is that your imagination of the characters gets usurped. In my head Gatsby was this elusive mélange of every cool as ice cat i'd ever encountered or seen a photo of once, all the more mystical because i'd have trouble describing how he appeared to me, except any time Fitzgerald deigned to conjure him on the page, and once more he'd enter stage right and magically reassemble in my head.

Now try as i might, Gatsby is motherfucking Leonardo di Caprio. Films make everything concrete, which cheapens the all too often trampled-over power of books. They reside in your head. The love affair is between you and your brain and the pages in front of you lighting a spark and throwing propane on your imagination. Rather than between you and fifty eight other dweebs none-too-discreetly chomping on popcorn as Leo beams back at you through your shitty 3D shades.

Oscar or no oscar, good luck with the below buddy.

He smiled understandingly - much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced - or seemed to face - the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

F Scott Fitzgerald 1896-1940 The Great Gatsby and other dopeness 

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