Cue the credits, then the music, and our numbed seats rise slowly in unison, and a room of strangers together arch their spines, stretch their legs, and spread their arms, as though for flight, as the cosy dimness finally lifts and ushers us back to reality with the sated sigh of having been, for a couple of hours or more, well entertained.
Glad that’s over,” she says.
Which yanks my gaze sideways, squinting. We’ve just finished watching Baz Luhrmann’s admittedly somewhat trippy rendering of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. A work, apparently, not too far from memoir for that famous author, who’s said to have himself gorged on the heady excesses of 1920s New Jersey and later, Paris, during what he affectionately – with the kindly back-cast gaze of nostalgia – termed ‘the jazz age’. A decade in which, with the feigned austerity of prohibition…
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