And yet it all comes across as a pale Moulin Rouge imitation, as if that eye-poppingly original director was being reined in, perhaps by the very source material many have called unfilmable. The result is trite, a mess of restless marionettes -- characters made wooden and visibly dying to burst into song but never allowed to -- peopled by very fine actors forced to ham it up.

Luhrmann, who also co-wrote the screenplay, stuns you -- and not in a nice way -- with this introduction to Gatsby's world and with later how Gatsby makes an appearance himself.

The length and pace of the second half make watching the film a tedious experience. Yes, it is stylish and there is colour and shimmer in every frame, but as the end credits roll all that you remember are Jay-Z and Lana Del Rey's melodic verses. And that doesn't bode too well for the film's reputation.

Amitabh Bachchan, in a one-scene cameo as Meyer Wolfsheim tells the world what we always knew: Big B is an actor who needs just that one scene.

While the book left ample scope for a reader to fill in the settings, romanticise the era and paint the characters his own shade of grey, Luhrmann’s visual flourish leaves little to imagination.