The Great Gatsby Musical
by Kaylee Tharp
When my mom signed up her unnaturally quiet first-grader for a summer camp at the local community theatre, I doubt she expected to instill a life-long fascination with every aspect of theatre into her daughter. Even after participating in dozens of shows at Playhouse in the Park, I still feel the same wide-eyed wonder as my six-year-old self as she stared into the crowd under the blazing stage lights. My fried attention span has thrown out nearly all of my interests on a whim, but theatre has always stuck with me. I can talk for hours about every little detail that goes into a production and how it all weaves together. I’m enamored by all of it: set design, lighting, costumes, music, everything.
Another interest that consistently lingers in the back of my mind is literature. I don’t read nearly as much as I should, but, much like Broadway icon Lin Manuel Miranda’s interpretation of Alexander Hamilton, I “write like I’m running out of time.” I also began writing when I was in first grade, my earliest project being a play about a pink unicorn and a group of human girls who took care of her. While still riding the sugar-crazed high of a passionate little girl, I’ve written well over 200,000 words from sixth grade to today. My interests in writing and theatre have always been intertwined. I would not love theatre if I couldn’t appreciate the writing, and I surely wouldn’t enjoy writing if I couldn’t imagine a cast of colorful characters grabbing hands and bowing on opening night with my name blazon on the front of a playbill.
When I read The Great Gatsby during my junior year, I fell in love with the drama and intrigue of the characters encased within the shabby yellowed pages. The overexaggerated nature of the novel was destined for the stage. Naturally, I was ecstatic to read that an adaptation for the stage would soon be hitting Broadway. Not only that, but it would be starring my favorite actress as my favorite character. The first song the social media pages teased, “Roaring On,” was an ostentatious ensemble jazz number full of slinky vocals and dazzling dresses. This production was hand-crafted for me.
The cast recording for The Great Gatsby dropped during my first week at GSP. At nearly midnight, I curled up in my XL twin bed, put in my earbuds, and started listening to the songs. To my shock, I didn’t love it. My life was unchanged by the almighty Great Gatsby musical that I had put on a pedestal inside my head. The entire song about my favorite line in the original novel tugged on none of my heartstrings. The big jazzy numbers were fun, but that was to be expected from a musical about The Great Gatsby. My favorite song was still “Roaring On,” and I had already been listening to snippets of it for months.
The musical was nothing revolutionary. It was a great cast recording, but that was to be expected. If you create a team full of ridiculously talented individuals, the final product is sure to be great. However, the show lacked the heart and soul that I had become accustomed to scrutinizing on my own time— good writing.
The main themes of the original novel— the unachievable nature of the American dream and the gritty underbelly of 1920’s culture— had been pushed to the side to focus on the romance between Gatbsy and Daisy. As an avid fan of both Jeremy Jordan and Eva Noblezada, I can’t complain about the number of scenes featuring them. I greatly enjoyed them. However, the literary critic that drones in the back of my brain could not stand for this injustice. “Why did they change it?” it whined.
Only weeks later, I decided to take what Bryan would call an “intellectual risk” by hosting an Intellectual Buffet about my two work-in-progress novels. This was the first time I had ever spoken about what I write to anyone besides a singular friend of mine. I arrived at JVAC in a frilly top and business pants, my heart frozen in place and notebook encased in my quaking hands. I was terrified. The literary critic in my head was drowned out by a chorus of “no one is going to care,” and “none of this even matters.”
As a few familiar faces filed inside of the classroom, some of that anxiety eased. If I was going to embarrass myself, at least it would be in front of people I knew. My heart and head were both racing so fast that I remember very little of what I said or did, but I remember the smiles and quiet remarks of “You did so good!” and “You spoke so well!” It was far from a disaster, but the literary critic in my head believed otherwise. I stared up at my ceiling the night afterward thinking about all of the things I forgot to say, all of the questions I didn’t properly answer, and, most of all, how none of it made any sense.
It was a presentation of nothing but hollow words and awkward smiles. The island of Dalseum isn’t meant for a one-hour business pitch. It’s meant for flashing stage lights and costumes full of lace and leather. It’s made for musical motifs and drag-adjacent performances. It’s not a world of easily digestible words— it’s a world of themes and symbols that loosely stitch together to form a story. My brain had yet to comprehend this. My approach to my current project needed to change.
Despite what the literary critic in my brain says, it’s okay for stories to change. If the writers wanted The Great Gatsby musical to be about romance and flashy jazz, then that’s fine. It’s more accessible to a modern audience. Sometimes, it’s okay for a show to exist to be fun and entertaining. Not everything needs deep themes about history and the economy and whatnot. The Great Gatsby is a novel that’s over one hundred years old— it’s fine to have one adaptation that isn’t perfect. I still listen to songs from the show. I still enjoy it, even though it isn’t perfect. My friends still enjoyed my Intellectual Buffet, even though it wasn’t perfect.
From both The Great Gatsby and my Intellectual Buffet, I’ve learned that change is inevitable. In a hundred years, there might be an adaptation of my own novels about romance about the two main characters— who aren’t even in love, mind you— starring Broadway’s best talents. People will still be able to find joy in it, and, at the end of the day, that’s the goal. The most important part of consuming and creating media is to find joy in it. I’ll be long dead in one hundred years. I won’t care.
I give The Great Gatsby musical three stars.