It's a universal truth that Leonardo DiCaprio was nothing short of exceptional in the latest attempt to put F. Scott Fitzgerald's work onscreen. His was a bravura turn, rife with complexities and filled with grandstanding moments that usually result in award nods. Yet it won't, for a very specific reason Baz Luhrmann. The Australian's work is often polarising, with descriptions of his aesthetic running the gamut from the more charitable 'busy,' the mild 'messy' and the not-on-the-fence-at-all 'eye-meltingly horrific'. But his uniquely lavish brand of film-making was arguably perfect for The Great Gatsby's pure extravagance. Yet for some Luhrmann didn't have an off switch. Instead, he'd created something strangely polarising. His Great Gatsby can be described as pretty, yet weirdly empty, a cinematic oxymoron utterly at odds with its own source material. Where Fitzgerald provided a cautionary tale against overindulgence, Luhrmann's film made us fall in love with the bitchin' parties and the admittedly impressive, overripe cinematography. If there was satire, Luhrmann was speeding past it with little more than a wave in his rear-view mirror. Enjoying the film depended on whether you were overpowered by this aesthetic or whether you could accept it as part of a unified whole. Because there was thematic gold here, if only you could find it.