This is a truly terrible film and a stain on the glittering career of a great director. De Niro acts as if he is made entirely of plywood and Pinter's script is one of the worst ever committed to celluloid. It is as if a great Hollywood director was suddenly unsure of his talents, had seen all the fuss they were making of Bergman and hired a man who wrote more pauses than words to craft a non-story out of the unfinished Fitzgerald novel. One of those puzzling instances where so many great talents combine to make something truly abysmal.
As a big fan of the work of F. Scott Fitzgerald I was keen to see this movie. It had an all-star cast and a veteran Hollywood director so what was there not to like? The story. It dramatically veers away from the book. Mr Starr is not shown to be besotted with his dead wife, not enough by my judgement, and the film has a happy-ish tinseltown ending. The book is darker and more powerful, even though it is incomplete due to the author's premature death. The notes at the end of the book are spine-tingling. Another Fitzgerald adaptation, another disappointment I'm afraid. And don't get me going on the travesty that is Baz Lurman's Great Gatsby.