Ludicrously lavish, The Great Gatsby musical lacks a basic level of respect for F Scott Fitzgerald’s original

Anyone who’s ever dressed up in a sequinned headband or felt fedora will recognise the 1920s trappings of this flashy Broadway musical version of The Great Gatsby. There’s jaunty dancing in gold fringed dresses, bootleg booze-related skulduggery, and even a recreation of that bit in the Baz Luhrmann film where the titular man of mystery hurls his immaculately pressed, snowy white linen shirts into the air (clearly, he’s never had to iron one). But what Kait Kerrigan’s weirdly larky book and Marc Bruni’s ludicrously lavish production lack is a basic level of respect for F Scott Fitzgerald’s elegy for the Roaring Twenties, or an understanding of what makes it more than an excellent theme for a hen do.

The opening number, “Roaring On”, sums up the issue. We’re meant to be meeting Nick (Corbin Bleu), a brooding soldier-turned-writer searching for his place in an America that’s growing fat on the profits of the war that scarred him. But Bleu’s attempts to introduce us to his inner world are gatecrashed by a gold-clad Greek chorus of party people dressed like cruise ship drag queens, exhaustingly desperate to let us know just how much fun the 1920s are.

In Fitzgerald’s novel, he has an ambiguous bond with Jordan, an abrasive, unconventional amateur golfer: here, they’re all-American sweethearts with Amber Davies bringing cutesy, punchy harmonies to their apple pie-sweet love story.

The titular Gatsby has had a cuddly makeover here, too. Jamie Muscato brings stupendous vocals and a jarringly approachable goofiness to this most elusive of literary creations. “I am not OK,” he sings as he prepares for a tea party with his lost love Daisy (Frances Mayli McCann), juggling cake stands like he’s attempting an emo reimagining of the Disney Beauty and the Beast classic “Be Our Guest”.

Kerrigan’s book is full of such crass interventions, terrified of even the slightest ambiguity. “Tom’s an asshole,” concludes Nick, after meeting Daisy’s boorish husband – just in case we didn’t get the message from his gropey behaviour. And Jason Howland’s score is a naked celebration of Broadway-style vocal virtuosity that lacks the subtlety, wit and lightness that defined 1920s musical theatre – Gatsby’s “For Her” is a stunner of a ballad, but would shine brighter if almost every song didn’t hit the same levels of belted-out fervour.

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This production's wonderfully named set designer Paul Tate dePoo III and costumier Linda Cho have created a remarkable spectacle that collates all the visual clichés we associate with the 1920s in the most commercial, accessible way possible – fireworks, ritzy projected backdrops, and costumes that discard the period's tube-shaped silhouette in favour of sexier push-up bras and cinched waistlines.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with this kind of historical inauthenticity if it’s in service of some kind of artistic purpose. Here, though, the only real message (bar some featherlight commentary on sexual double standards) is that the era’s superficiality makes serious thought impossible: Nick’s famous final monologue is almost inaudible over the sounds of screeching revellers.

This take on The Great Gatsby was a flop on Broadway. Perhaps London audiences are more likely to be wowed by a level of all-American fireworks not seen on the West End since 42nd Street. But I suspect not. As US public life enters an era of unprecedented crassness, it feels odd to drown out, rather than expose, Fitzgerald’s critique of this moneyed circle. Gold dresses are pretty, but greed isn’t good.

At the London Coliseum until 7 September 2025; tickets here