Feathered headpieces? Check. Long strings of beads? Check. More Brooks Brothers than a Princeton reunion? Check. Spectator shoes, cloche hats, and Bakelite bangles? Check, check, check. The Great Gatsby delivers the fashion clichés of the 1920s (and a few from other eras) that we expected to see.
But they don't look quite as we expected to see them. The colors are richer, the dresses more bespangled, and the flappers less perky. This Gatsby isn't the Gatsby of John Held, Jr. cartoons, nor is it Boardwalk Empire. It's darker, grittier, and much sexier than the priggish Fitzgerald could have imagined. It's a 21st century Gatsby, set in the 1920s, which, paradoxically, ups its connection to the decadent period it depicts. If you want historically accurate costumes, you'll be better served by PBS. If you want to understand the social and cultural meaning of clothes in the 1920s, then this movie delivers.
Self-appointed protectors of the novel and your "history buff" neighbor will swear Luhrmann gets it wrong, but there is no "wrong" in an interpretation, old sport. And I know that Luhrmann's camp cared about the historical details, because as an academic who writes about Fitzgerald-era fashion, I sat in a room with production designer Catherine Martin. She asked me pointed questions about period clothing. "Would Gatsby's tie have been this fabric or this fabric?" she said, pushing swatches across the table. "That one, because it's a natural fiber. There were no synthetics until the 1940s." Understanding the history and then choosing when and where to use it is different than simply ignoring it. It is far more important that Luhrmann gets the cultural context of the clothing. And he does.
In the movie, as in life, socioeconomic class defines a character's dress. In 1920s New York, class was beginning to change. Old money and Tom Buchanan-types were losing their hold on American culture. Gatsby and his parvenus pushed the boundaries of "appropriate." Bye-bye tailcoats. Hello tuxedos. In the extravagant party scenes, Luhrmann mixes the old guard with the new—a Western senator in a 10-gallon hat dances with a debutante; Ivy League boys wear white flannel pants and feel up film stars. Things are not trickling down anymore, Dr. Veblen. Fashions flourish in the strangest of places.
Luhrmann's Tom wears a fitted, dark blue, double-breasted vest and suit coat. He is restrained. Gatsby sports that pink linen suit—a detail modern readers remember because of its connotations with gender. In its cultural context, however, the color was about class and about showiness. The pink suit—pinstriped and paired with a burgundy tie and gold collar bar—reveals Gatsby's true beginnings. Tom and Nick adhere to the kind of sartorial understatement their mummy taught them and they cultivated on green quads. The contrast between the blueblood and the bootlegger is striking, and moviegoers would get it without the multiple mentions of the suit by Buchanan. If audiences literally want to get it, they can hightail it to Brooks Brothers. The firm, who dressed the author and his Princeton pals, has rolled out a Gatsby-inspired collection, complete with tapered pant legs a la Don Draper—certainly not 1922, but saleable nonetheless.